Downfall
by Decadent Meerkat
Summary: The Rise and Fall of the last King of Númenor. As told from Ar-Pharazôn's point of view. Update: Coup d'etat, Númenor-style.
1. The Return

**Chapter One: The Return**

"Land ahoy!" came the call from the crow's nest.

Fifteen years, and now I was home. From the spray-covered deck of the flagship, my eyes watched the great spikey silhouette of Mount Meneltarma edge over the horizon. It had been too long. Winning renown in Middle-earth had garnered me enough riches to last me many a lifetime, but the Land of the Star would always be where my heart lay. The grey ocean waves crashed around us. Their roar was as music to my ears.

I thrust my arms into the air in triumph. "We have done it, Amandil!" I cried. "We are back!"

"It would appear so," he said, standing beside me. Amandil was my closest friend, the man who had fought shoulder to shoulder with me against the orcs and savage men of Middle-earth. "It will be good to see my wife and little Elendil again."

His wife was a shrew, self-righteous and judgemental, but I resisted the temptation to pass comment. "Elendil will no longer be little," I said. "He will now be a man of one-and-twenty."

"Indeed. Time passes so swiftly these days."

"I wonder if my uncle will be there to greet us when we sail into Rómenna."

"I would not be too hopeful, Pharazôn," said Amandil. "The King likes you not, and a mere fifteen years will not have changed him."

That was true enough. No doubt old Inziladûn would have preferred me to sail away and never return. "The King likes no-one." I said. "He has more interest in Elves than his own subjects. Our glorious Empire was built in spite of men like him."

Amandil smiled. "You would be wise to be more circumspect when we arrive in Rómenna. Tar-Palantír sees far, and hears all."

I slapped my old friend on the back. "Ah, Amandil, always the old stick-in-the-mud. But, yes, you are right. My beloved uncle will seize any pretext for eliminating me. I am a challenge to him in a way that my father has never been."

Amandil laughed. "It is a short step from challenge to treason, my friend. I think you have been too long in Middle-earth!"

"I could have told you that already. The women were starting to bore me, for a start. There is only so much rustic charm one can take."

During the next few hours the howling easterly gale blew the fleet towards Rómenna. We passed the eastern lighthouse, and I waved to its garrison. Unless they were using spy-glasses, they likely could not see me, but it felt good to greet them nonetheless. Then the harbour opened up before us. The great eastern port of Númenor looked much as I remembered it: messy, sprawling, and lacking the refinement of the capital Armenelos' inner city, but nevertheless sturdy and strong. Its granite towers cast long shadows over the rest of the buildings. The various pleasure craft of the local nobility mingled with fishing boats in the harbour, but all were dwarfed by our great warships as we sailed into port. It is as it should be, I thought. Let the herring merchants and perfumed fools know that Pharazôn has returned with the slaves and gems and gold of many a conquered nation.

Later, striding down the gangplank, I noticed a gaggle of men lurking by the wharf. They were well-dressed but I did not recognise any of them. Perhaps, I thought, they were some of the petty nobles who had risen to power based off the King's favour. My uncle had spent many years trying to insert Elf-friends into positions of power, to the extent that it was often said, only half in jest, that one's best hope of advancement under Inziladûn was to dye one's hair dark and start quoting Quenya. But that foolishness was not for me. Elf-friends were fine in their own way, I had long ago decided, but Númenor was a nation of Men, and could not realise its full potential until it cast away the child-like inferiority that had marred so much of our early history. That said, it was not an issue where I allowed politics to trump friendship: despite my father's wrath, I had many friends among the so-called Faithful, including, of course, Amandil himself.

One of the men came towards me with a gesture of greeting. He was a slender man with dark hair and grey eyes, and no sword at his hip.

"Lord Pharazôn, it is so good to see you again!"

To be honest, I could have sworn that I had never laid eyes on the man in my life, but then fifteen years away is a long time, even for we long-lived Númenóreans.

"Yes, it has been a while, has it not? And who might I have the honour of addressing?"

"Minardil son of Elentur" he said. "I am the harbour master of Rómenna."

I frowned. "What happened to old Kimilzôr?"

"Kimilzôr drowned seven years ago in tragic circumstances. Lord Raphizôn of Rómenna saw fit to appoint me as his replacement."

Yes, I thought, he would. Old Raphizôn was one of those lords who blew with the wind, and under my uncle the wind from Armenelos was one where the lembas-eaters were looked kindly upon. It hardly needed saying that under my grandfather, Ar-Gimilzôr, Raphizôn had been one of the more dedicated King's Men. As for this Minardil, his name and new status left me in no doubt about his views.

"Long may you enjoy the position," I said. "I must say, it is good to have Númenórean soil underfoot again."

Minardil smiled. It was a bland smile. I decided that I disliked him already. "I imagine that you have brought back much wealth from the lands of Middle-earth," he said.

"Every cargo hold in our entire fleet is filled with booty," I said. "Precious gems from the Blue Mountains, walrus ivory from Forochel, slaves from the hills around Pelargir, gold from the Kingdoms of Harad. Even mithril silver from the dwarven realm of Khazad-dûm."

Minardil's eyes widened. "Khazad-dûm? You have made war on the dwarves?"

"Do I look like a fool?" I snapped. "I traded for it. The dwarves are always eager for foodstuffs and fodder, and after our raids on the savages, we had more than enough to spare. I tell you, my friend, that in all the long centuries of our great Empire, there have been few occasions where such wealth has been brought back to the homeland." Yes, I thought. My men and I had done more to advance Númenor in fifteen years than the lembas-eaters had done in two thousand. Not that my uncle Inziladûn would ever acknowledge such a blasphemy.

"These are great tidings indeed, my lord. It may interest you to know that your cousin, Princess Míriel, is visiting Rómenna, and is currently staying at Lord Raphizôn's palace as a guest."

"Is she indeed?" That awakened old memories, and no mistake. My cousin, Inziladûn's daughter, was the most beautiful woman in Númenor. Under pressure from the King, she had been forced into an unhappy betrothal with Amandil's cousin, Melendur, an ugly, bookish fellow whose political views matched well with our esteemed monarch's. Míriel, or rather Zimraphel, was decidedly unhappy with this arrangement, but she did not let her betrothal interfere with her pleasure. She habitually took to bed whichever young nobleman currently took her fancy, while the King had fumed in self-righteous anger. "Melendur does not mind," Amandil had once confided to me over some wine. "He would rather watch the stars and read Elvish manuscripts than spend time with your cousin."

"Has she finally wed Melendur?" I asked Minardil.

"No, my lord. The betrothal has now entered its thirtieth year, and the wedding does not appear to be any nearer." Poor old Inziladûn, I thought. My uncle had clearly lost control of the situation, thrown his hands up, and moved onto other things. I almost felt sorry for him.

"A pity," I lied. "Still, I had best pay a visit to Lord Raphizôn, and pay my respects to both he and my cousin. It is expected of me."

Minardil bowed low. The wretch may have been a toad, but he knew his protocol. "I shall send a messenger to notify his lordship at once."


	2. Dinner

**Chapter Two: Dinner**

Lord Raphizôn blew with the wind, and with my arrival, he clearly noticed that a sudden breeze had arrived from the east. I was greeted warmly by his palace steward, who had apartments in the palace's southern wing set aside for my use. The rooms were spacious and well-decorated; above all, they reminded me of how long I had been away from civilisation. My first act on being alone in the room was to throw myself down on the large feather bed. I then went and called out to the palace slaves to pour me a bath. Only the exertions of a long sea voyage can truly make one appreciate the comforts of a warm bath, and as the slaves pottered round me carrying hot water, I lay back and dreamed of what I would do with my newfound wealth. Afterwards, I chatted amicably to Raphizôn's barber, who had been sent to shave me; I have always made a point of being on good terms with the lower orders. One never knows when the love of the common folk may prove crucial. My father, dour, grim, and tight-fisted has never understood that.

Having washed and shaved, I selected some fine silk and velvet garments in my favoured colours, sable and gold. During my travels, more often than not I wore simple wool, leather, and chain-mail, but, being back among civilised people, it was necessary to maintain appearances; the stained leather jerkin I had arrived in would never do here. A plain golden circlet to keep my hair in place completed my outfit. I strode down to dinner, the very essence of ancient Númenórean nobility.

I entered the dining room to discover a well-laden table, with roast pheasant and dishes of boiled asparagus and buttered mushrooms. Raphizôn and my cousin were already seated. Raphizôn was an old man these days, and had only got fatter with age. What little hair he had left was grey, and his great walrus moustache was stained with the gravies of a thousand meals. He had jewelled rings on his fingers. My cousin, Zimraphel, was, by contrast, an altogether more comely sight. Tall and slender, with long dark hair and blue eyes, she was wearing a smooth green dress that showed her small breasts to full advantage.

On seeing me, my host stood, and inclined his bald head. "Lord Pharazôn," said Raphizôn, "I am honoured by your presence."

"And I by yours," I said, bowing politely. The courtly games had begun.

Zimraphel had not moved, but merely smiled. "So, cousin Pharazôn," she said, "you live after all. The King will be delighted to see you back in Armenelos."

Without a head, I thought. "My royal uncle is too kind." Zimraphel maintained her smile. I sat down at the table, conscious of the tension in my breeches. I was no stranger to the charms of women, but my cousin could distract a man like no other.

"I believe that is enough formality for one evening," said Raphizôn, "now let us eat!" I smiled wryly at that. Followers of the Faithful often preferred to briefly acknowledge Eru before a meal, but with both Inziladûn's daughter and myself in the room, Raphizôn was in a bind. If truth be told, I never did mind this archaic practice of the Faithful, and I knew Zimraphel's acts of piety were largely calculated to appease her father. But it was still amusing to watch poor Raphizôn try to dance his way out.

The food turned out to be very good, though perhaps a bit rich for my tastes after my long experience of rations. Raphizôn ordered a slave to bring in some wine from the cellar. "Vintage stuff it is too," he said to me, "it was laid down in the time of your great-grandfather."

"They make very good wine in Middle-earth too," I said. "There is a land in the north-east named Dorwinion, which has some major vinyards."

"Well, yes," said Zimraphel, "Dorwinion means 'The Land of Wines' in Sindarin Elvish. Whatever one may think of the Elves, they generally give things appropriate names."

"It is good to see that my uncle's little girl has been learning her Elvish," I said sarcastically; I myself had never seen the point. "The King will be so pleased."

"Why, cousin, that almost sounds like jealousy."

Raphizôn swiftly changed the subject. "So, my Lord Pharazôn, tell me, what threat does Sauron of Mordor pose to our interests in Middle-earth?"

"Sauron is content to bide his time for now," I said. "He hides behind his great mountain ranges, and broods. He also has much to brood about, having lost many a servant to Númenórean swords over the last fifteen years."

"Yet, perhaps," said Raphizôn, "It would be wise to seek to end this menace once and for all?"

"Certainly," I said. "But Mordor is too well-defended to easily conquer. I had many ships and many men, but a full-scale assault on the Lord of Barad-dûr would require long preparation and the marshalling of all the Empire's resources. Such an undertaking is the prerogative of the King alone."

"Perhaps you will suggest it to Tar-Palantír when you arrive in the capital?"

"Perhaps I shall."

"Ah," said, Raphizôn, "the wine has arrived." He poured himself a generous quantity. "Here's to the defeat of Mordor!"

"To the defeat of Mordor!" I echoed, pouring some myself. Raphizôn's vintage turned out to be a disappointment. It was not a patch on Dorwinion.

"You are very quiet, cousin," I said. Zimraphel had not taken part in the toast, but was instead picking idly at her portion of pheasant.

"Never mind me, Pharazôn. I am just thinking about what my father will say when he discovers that you are trying to force Númenor into yet another war of aggression."

I had to laugh at that. "Sauron is the Enemy, you foolish woman. Many centuries ago, Tar-Minastir went to Middle-earth with a great armada. He defeated the Dark Lord, and rescued your poor, hopeless Elven friends from the mess that they had found themselves in. Sauron has never forgotten this and wishes to destroy our island. An assault on Mordor is in Númenórean interests!"

"I am well aware of history, cousin," said Zimraphel. "And I am well aware of what Sauron is. Perhaps I am more aware than you are."

"Oh really?" I said, helping myself to some more of Raphizôn's wine. It was growing on me. Perhaps I had been overly hasty in judging it.

"You regard Sauron as the Enemy," said Zimraphel, "not because he is a cruel tyrant, but because he is a rival. When Númenor gave assistance to the free peoples many centuries ago, our nation fought Sauron because he wished to enslave the realms of Men. Now, you wish to enslave the realms of Men in order to fight Sauron."

I noticed that Raphizôn was paying an inordinate amount of attention to his food. I suspected he was swiftly discovering that the surest path to pleasing nobody is in trying to please everybody.

"More foolishness," I said, draining my glass. "The Men of Middle-earth are all-too frequently in allegiance with Barad-dûr. We bring them civilisation, and what do we get in return? Endless rebellion and treachery. My old companion, Amandil, is, like you, a friend of the Elves. He can verify my words. He has fought alongside me countless times against these Men and their orkish allies…"

"And here is the dessert," said Raphizôn, as the slaves reappeared bearing fresh trays.

"It appears to be blueberry tarts and cream," I said, distracted.

"Did you encounter many tarts in Middle-earth, cousin?" said Zimraphel, grinning.

"Beyond count," I said. "But none as civilised as the average Númenórean tart."

There was trifle and some fruit as well, all of which served to put me in a rather less combative frame of mind. Soon the three of us were trading japes, as though we had discussed nothing more heated than the weather. I was also becoming well and truly drunk on Raphizôn's wine. It was definitely an acquired taste, I thought, as I helped myself to another glass. Raphizôn too was becoming quite flushed. Zimraphel was not drinking wine, seemingly preferring water.

Finally, after the plates had been cleared away, I clambered awkwardly to my feet.

"My thanks, Lord Raphizôn, for your generous dinner…"

Raphizôn belched. "It has been a pleasure, Lord Pharazôn."

"And my thanks, dear cousin, for your delightful wit and charm."

"I would complement you too, cousin," said Zimraphel, with her sweetest smile, "but then I would be lying."

I smiled back. At least I think I did. Bowing clumsily, I formally took my leave, and stumbled back to my room.


	3. After Dinner

**Warning: chapter contains M-level content.**

**Chapter Three: After Dinner**

I returned to my room, still cheerfully drunk from the wine, to find that the palace slaves had lit all the candles. The room now basked in an eerie glow that I found rather pleasant. I wandered over to the window. As the room was on the third floor of the palace, and the window was large and east-facing, during the daytime there would no doubt be an impressive view of the harbour. It was now early night, however, so I had to content myself with marvelling at the distant flashes from the Rómenna lighthouse. Down below, the lamps were burning in the quays, and the nocturnal folk of the city were going about their business. There were always things going on at night in the great cities of Númenor; it was part of being an Empire, I supposed. Certainly, the primitive savages whom we had fought in Middle-earth would have never seen a stone building, let alone a multi-storied palace amidst a bustling city.

There was a knock on the door. Crossing once more over the luxurious crimson carpet, I went to see who it was. Much to my surprise it was Zimraphel.

"Pharazôn," she said, "may I come in?"

"Of course, dear cousin, of course."

I went and sat down on the bed. Zimraphel, I decided, looked even better in the dim light. She shut the door behind her.

"And to what do I owe this pleasure?" I said, grinning like a fool.

"Was it not fun making Raphizôn so nervous tonight? The old fool thought he saw us fighting like cats and dogs over politics."

I nodded. "He'll probably go and tell your father how staunch a member of the Faithful you were, and tell my father how staunch a King's Man I am. Because we want to please our parents, do we not? Though now that I think about it, the designation of King's Man is a bit obsolete these days. Shouldn't your lot be the King's Men, and my lot be the, well, Other Men?"

Zimraphel laughed, "I have so missed your sense of humour, Pharazôn. It has been too long, so I thought we should start where we left off."

"Left off?" I frowned, my mind still muddied by drink.

"Before you went away," she said, as she started undressing, casually dropping her green dress and then her undergarments onto the floor. She walked naked towards me, her small breasts visible in the soft candlelight. She pressed her lips to mine. I lost myself in her, my tongue was in her mouth, and my hands delighted in the warmth of her body.

She undressed me, and climbed atop. It had been a while since I had had a woman this wet and eager, and despite the wine, I was well and truly aroused. The love was fast and furious. Later, gasping, we lay beside each other on the feather bed.

"You're much better than all the women I had in Middle-earth," I said, kissing her again.

"You're much better than that cretin Melendur."

"Why, can't he get it up?" I said, giving her breast a gentle squeeze.

"No, he's simply not interested in women. Or men either. Or even goats. All he wants is to be is left alone with his old scrolls and his spy-glass."

"Spy-glass? Does he like to watch or something?"

Zimraphel laughed. "No, you fool. He uses it to watch the stars."

"Melendur doesn't seem that bad a fellow. He's as ugly as sin, and, as you say, simply not, well, interested, but he's always struck me as nice enough. He's Amandil's cousin, after all."

"Oh he is nice enough, until you try to force him to do things. Soon after we were betrothed, my father told me that unless I slept with Melendur, he would disown me, and make you his heir."

"Me?" I propped myself up on my elbow. "But your father hates me!"

Zimraphel smiled. "And he thinks I hate you too. Hence the threat. With any luck, after tonight, he will still think I hate you. But even so, being threatened with that meant that I had no choice but to get my betrothed into bed."

"And what happened?"

"It wasn't pretty. Afterwards, Lord Numendil of Andunië, who is Melendur's uncle, came to my father, and told him that Melendur was no longer to be ill-treated in such a way."

"What did your father say?"

"The great and mighty Tar-Palantír sulked for weeks, but finally acceded to Numendil's request. That is why, after thirty years, we are still betrothed, and not married. My father refuses to break off the betrothal though, partly out of misplaced stubbornness, and partly because he's waiting for Numendil to die so that he can start afresh when Amandil becomes Lord of Andunië."

I burst out laughing. "Oh, my poor uncle. The greatest fool ever to sit the throne of Elros."

Zimraphel pinched my nipple. "You can talk, Pharazôn. Your own father's name is a by-word for petulance."

She had a point there. "Sometimes I think it would have been better if the sceptre had bypassed the both of them and come to us."

"Oh, it will. Once my father has the good sense to die anyway."

She may have been lying there beside me, naked and irresistible, but hearing any daughter talk about her father like that is enough to make one's blood run cold. "I hope you're not suggesting anything," I said.

"Of course not. I am merely stating the truth. The sooner Tar-Míriel ascends the throne, the better for Númenor."

I mounted her. "You never know," I said, entering her once more, "Númenor might end up with an Ar-Pharazôn. Wouldn't that be interesting?"

Zimraphel grinned. "Do not get your hopes too high, Pharazôn." Then we were lost in our mutual lusts.

The next morning, I awoke to find her gone. Clearly she had stolen back to her own bed, lest our nocturnal activities be discovered. I also had a mild hangover from the previous night's drinking. I climbed out of bed and padded over to the window. Sure enough, there was a fine view out over the harbour, though it looked to be overcast. Dressing myself, I went downstairs.

The palace steward was lurking. "My Lord Pharazôn," he said, "Amandil of Andunië awaits you outside. He has brought a fresh horse and a travelling cloak for you to journey to Armenelos." I thanked the steward, then went outside to see Amandil.

"There you are!" he said, when he saw me. "Did you oversleep?"

"I think it would be more accurate to say that I had trouble sleeping," I said, truthfully enough. "I still need to formally take leave of Lord Raphizôn."

"I will wait outside," said Amandil. "You know what I think of Raphizôn."

Back when Raphizôn had been an ardent King's Man, he had been instrumental in organising treason trials among the lower-level nobility. Despite his belated conversion to the cause of the Faithful, Lord Numendil of Andunië would still not talk to the Lord of Rómenna, and Amandil had followed his father's example.

"Very well," I said. "I will not be long."

I found Raphizôn seated in an armchair in his library. He had a massive leather-bound book in his lap, though I could not see the title.

"I must take my leave of you, my lord," I said, bowing. "It has been a pleasure to experience the renowned hospitality of Rómenna."

Raphizôn inclined his head. "My thanks, Lord Pharazôn, and you have my best wishes for your journey. I must say though that it was an extraordinary coincidence that Princess Míriel happened to be visiting me at the time of your return."

"Yes, it was an interesting coincidence," I said.

"A shame in some ways. You and her are bright, able, and forceful, the future of our nation. Yet the partisan divide between you is tearing the Empire apart. I saw how the two of you bickered at dinner last night; it was like watching your father and her father all over again."

"I admit that things got rather heated," I said. That was true enough. In more ways than one, of course.

"Yes, and it is not healthy, not healthy at all. I am an old man, and have seen much strife in my life; I hope to live to see the day when Númenor can live at peace with itself. You and your cousin need to learn how to mend fences. You may disagree, but you are both still Númenóreans. "

"I shall take your advice to heart, Lord Raphizôn," I said. My face was an expressionless mask.

Raphizôn smiled. "Thank you, Lord Pharazôn. Please forgive me if I sound too presumptive. It is but the ramblings of an old man."

"Not at all, my lord. Farewell." I bowed and left.

It was only when I was riding out of Rómenna that I burst into laughter.

"What is so funny, Pharazôn?" asked Amandil, genuinely puzzled.

"Nothing at all, Amandil. Nothing at all."


	4. The Capital of the Empire

**Chapter Four: The Capital of the Empire**

"If I had known that the road would be this crowded, I would have hired cheaper horses from that livery stable," snapped Amandil, as light drizzle began to fall.

I shared his frustration. Even when the walls and towers of Rómenna had disappeared from view, the paved road to Armenelos was teeming with traffic. Merchants, soldiers, whores, tax collectors, and peasants each scurried along on some business of their own, obstructing our path, and rendering it impossible for us to ride as quickly as we wished. The vast majority of the travellers were on foot, and we might as well have been too, for all the speed that we had on horseback. Nor was it possible to ride across country: the fields to either side had been sternly fenced off many centuries before, when the local lords had grumbled about damage to crops. We had no option but to be patient.

Partly from generosity, and partly from boredom, I threw a handful of silver coins down to the passers-by. Amandil initially looked nonplussed, then realised that it was simply charity on my part. "Sometimes it is nice being nobility," he chuckled, as some coins ended up in well-trodden piles of horse dung. "I would never go hunting through that just for a couple of marks!"

The common folk seemed to be of a different mind. There was many a mad scramble for those coins, followed by the doffing of caps, and among those who recognised me, breathless pledges of undying loyalty to Pharazôn son of Gimilkhâd.

"See Amandil," I said, "the people appreciate an open-handed lord."

"I note that you are giving them silver, not gold, Pharazôn," said Amandil. "Perhaps you are not as generous as you think you are!"

"It is more than I see you giving."

"I prefer to err on the side of prudence in such matters. Give generously today, and they will come knocking on your door tomorrow, when you may have nothing to give. Be frugal, and they will appreciate what you give them all the more!"

"The view of merchants," I said, "and my father. Look where so-called prudence got him." I also needed the love of the common folk now, rather than later. But that was best left unsaid, even to Amandil.

The rain was becoming heavier, so we both pulled up our cloak hoods. As we slowly made our way towards the capital, I gazed around at the orderly fields of the Númenórean countryside. Centuries, nay millennia, of cultivation had left its irreversible mark in the island's landscape. How different was the Land of the Star from the wild and untamed lands of Middle-earth! In my travels, I had spent weeks and months marching through lands of rock, gorse, and heather, and had marvelled at the vastness of Greenwood the Great: a veritable ocean of trees that had stood since the dawn of time. But Númenor was different. It was true that virgin forests were still to be found in obscure corners of the island, especially in the hilly northern reaches of Forostar, and there was much dense and ancient foliage on the slopes of Mount Meneltarma. But here, on the eastern plains, there was nought but tidy fields, grass, and the grand old stone fences of our forefathers. The great paved road itself, originally built in the time of Elros Tar-Minyatur and repaired through the years by countless slaves, ran as straight as an arrow, disappearing far in the distance beneath the huge shadow of the Mountain.

It was dusk when we finally reached the outskirts of Armenelos. We rode past crumbling hovels and gambling dens. A few sullen faces stared at Amandil and I from the upper windows of rickety houses.

"Do you think anyone here has recognised us since we entered the city?" I muttered.

"I am unsure," he said. "It is probably getting a bit dark, and with these cloaks, we could be anyone."

"Hello, there travellers," said a man's voice from an alleyway. "Those are a couple of pretty horses you have there. That amount of horseflesh … let me see, that would feed quite a few folk round here for days, I'm reckoning. So how about you just hand them over..."

I pulled back my hood. The rain messing my hair was a small price to pay: in a street fight, one needs unobstructed visibility. From the corner of my eye, I could see some shadowy figures emerge from the surrounding buildings. I winked at Amandil as we simultaneously dismounted. This was like old times on campaign.

"Lord Ph…, Lord Ph…" said the prospective attacker when he saw my face, belatedly realising who it was he had challenged.

"Sorry, my friend," I said to the terrified man, drawing my sword, "the only flesh you will be eating will be your own tongue, after I cut it out and stuff it back down your throat."

I was as good as my word. I always am. Sheathing my bloodied weapon, I went to see how Amandil had fared. A couple of corpses lay in front of him, the blood from their wounds seeping into the puddles of rainwater.

"The rest ran," said Amandil, "They knew they were doomed the second you pulled back that hood. It is either a very brave or very stupid man who would draw steel against the King's nephew and the Heir of Andunië in the streets of Armenelos."

"Well, I said, "That answers the question as to whether we have been recognised with the hoods. And these men," I said, pointing at the corpses, "were clearly just very stupid."

Amandil nodded. "Still, we had best get to the city walls tonight," he said. "Much more of this and even the drunkards at the Watch House will start taking notice."

"Agreed," I said. We had got back on our horses, leaving the dead where they lay. More likely than not they would end up in the broth of an unsavoury tavern. "I will say this for my grandfather," I added. "He had the right idea about clearing out the outer city." Armenelos had long ago spread beyond its ancient walls, with disease-ridden slums branching out unchecked. Ar-Gimilzôr had once suggested demolishing the city-beyond-the-walls and relocating the population elsewhere. His idea had come to nought though, and uncle Inziladûn was far too interested in studying Elvish lore and moping at the top of Tar-Minastir's tower to worry about such things. As we passed further into the city, I saw numerous beggars and dirty children. I threw some more coins, and carried on.

It was night when we came to the gate to the inner city. The gate was a massive bronze structure, built in the early days of Númenor by Dwarven smiths, or so the story went. The story went on to say that the smiths had been cheated by the Númenórean King of the day, but neither I nor Zimraphel had ever believed a word of it. She said that the tale was a corruption of one about Elves and Dwarves, while I insisted that it would have been totally out of character for our people. The Númenóreans of the early days were too childlike and honourable for such underhandedness. Now on the other hand…

The numerous lamps around the walls kept the area well lit. Amandil and I dismounted, and strolled up to the guardsmen on duty.

"And who might you be?" asked one of the guards, brandishing a spear. I said nothing, but pulled my hood back again, giving him a good look at my face.

"Ah," said the guard, sheepishly. "Lord Pharazôn. It has been a long time, my lord. My most humble apologies. We were not expecting you."

"Yet here I am," I said grinning. "And this gentleman is Amandil of Andunië. Lord Numendil's Heir. You may remember him also. We have business in the inner city."

"As you wish, my lord." He and his companion obligingly opened the gate for us. Getting back on our horses, we rode through without a backwards look.

The inner city of Armenelos was altogether different from the city-beyond-the-walls. Here one found the respectable, the wealthy, and the well-favoured. The streets were wide and well-lit, and the houses were made of stone rather than wood and mud.

"Not far from the Palace now," I said. "I believe we owe my dear uncle a night-time visit."


	5. Uncle TarPalantir

**Chapter Five: Uncle Tar-Palantír **

The welcome at the royal palace in Armenelos was frostier than the one I had received at Rómenna. Indeed, not since the Bay of Forochel had I encountered such coldness. Inziladûn's functionaries recognised me on sight, of course, but they were not in the least bit awed by my presence. The King, they said, would see us shortly, but in the meantime we were to wait in a side-hall.

"I have always loved the architecture of this city," Amandil said to me, as he admired some obsidian stonework. "Everything is so much larger, and grander than Andunië."

"Do not let your wife hear that," I said. "Did she not once say that this city was a celebration of cruelty and decadence?" I wondered if she had even permitted young Elendil to journey anywhere near the capital. The poor lad would have grown to manhood knowing nothing but the icy spite of his mother.

Amandil smiled. "She spoke truly. Our civilisation _is _one of cruelty and decadence. But that does not mean that our people do not produce fine buildings and artwork."

"Poor Sauron. If only Barad-dûr had been more aesthetically pleasing, the mighty Amandil of Andunië would have never waged war on him."

We were still laughing at that when a herald marched in, wearing a dark green tabard over polished silver armour. "All kneel before Tar-Palantír," he called out, "King of Númenor, Lord of Armenelos, and Protector of Nimloth the Fair."

I knelt like a good Númenórean. Whatever I thought of my uncle as a man, I owed my loyalty to the Throne of Men, and would die defending it if need be. Amandil knelt likewise.

Then Inziladûn himself hobbled into the room. He looked much the same as ever, with his prematurely greying hair, thick eyebrows, and scowling countenance. He was known to be physically strong in the upper body, but a riding accident in his youth had ruined his legs, so that he could only walk with the aid of a cane. The King wore woollen robes, dyed dark blue, his favoured colour. He did not wear a sword.

"It is you," said the most powerful man in the world.

"Very perceptive, uncle," I said. Fifteen years had not made him a fraction more pleasant.

Inziladûn's mouth twisted. "Were there no more battles to fight in Middle-earth, that you had to return to trouble my thoughts?"

"The battles are over, uncle. Númenor is victorious, and I have returned with many shiploads of tribute and booty."

"The battles are never over, Pharazôn," said the King, as he eased himself into a baroque wooden chair. "You may rise."

I got to my feet. "My brother Gimilkhâd is causing strife again," said my uncle. "What are you going to do about it?"

Ah, father, I thought, your incompetence knows no boundary. With a monarch like Inziladûn, a potential rival could easily have had every lord in Númenor eating out of his hand. But Gimilkhâd had managed to do the impossible and make himself even more unpopular than the King.

"What is my father doing now?" I asked, morbidly fascinated.

"He has been talking. Spreading rumours that my little Míriel is not my daughter, but rather some other man's get."

It was true that Zimraphel resembled her mother Queen Gimilbêth much more than her father, but this was self-serving foolishness.

"Are you sure that my father has been the source of these lies?"

The King snorted. "Of course. Who else would it be? It is treason I tell you, treason. I will have your father's head for this, and yours too if you do not put a leash on him."

"Gimilkhâd is my father. It is not my place to chastise him."

Inziladûn spat. "Weakling!" he said. "But no mind. I have news that will make these lies of his moot anyway. The Queen is pregnant again. All my doctors have told me that it will be a son."

My heart missed a beat, and I heard Amandil gasp. Queen Gimilbêth was pregnant? The news would soon spread like wildfire across the Empire. Zimraphel would not be amused by the prospect of a younger brother, that was for certain.

"But my King," said Amandil in a more respectful tone than I could have ever managed, "Princess Míriel, by the ancient laws of Tar-Aldarion, is eldest and still the rightful heir, regardless of whether the child is male or female."

Inziladûn swept aside my friend's objection. "The law can be changed. It comes with being the King. When this land was founded, succession went from father to eldest son. Perhaps I am minded to restore the even more ancient laws of Elros Tar-Minyatur, and do away with Tar-Aldarion's edict."

"Yes, my King," said Amandil, the blood visibly draining from his face.

Zimraphel was not going to be pleased at all, I thought. Was she being punished the Melendur betrothal fiasco? Or perhaps, despite her best efforts, my uncle believed that she was not sufficiently aligned with the Faithful?

"When the child is born I shall have three days of public celebration and thanksgiving to the Valar," said Inziladûn. "I also expect every nobleman in Númenor to provide suitable gifts for the new Prince." The King eyed me malignantly. "Pharazôn," he added, "with your newly garnered wealth, I am sure that we can expect a generous contribution from you."

"I will see what I can do, uncle. But do you not first want to hear my account of the wars in Middle-earth?"

"By which you mean you wish to bore my ears with tales of how you cut down unarmed peasants and called it bravery," snapped the King. "Very well, I shall listen." He gestured behind him to one of the slaves who stood silently by the door. "Be so good as to fetch chairs for my nephew and his friend. Also, I will be needing fresh water. Listening to Lord Pharazôn is thirsty work."

I spent two hours telling my uncle how I had spent the last fifteen years. Every so often Amandil would interject to clarify something. I was pleased he did so. Amandil may have been my best friend, but he was also one of the Faithful, and as such the King was more kindly disposed towards him. As for Inziladûn himself, he was largely silent as he listened, refraining, for once, from making bitter commentary.

"So the entire western lands of Middle-earth, from the Misty Mountains to the Sea, now acknowledge our sway," I said in conclusion, "save only for the Elven outposts around Lindon, who are, of course, a special case. Sauron has retreated behind the Mountains of Shadow, but cannot be rooted out of his land unless Númenor sends all its strength."

My uncle frowned, a facial expression that came as easily as breathing to him. "I take it," he said, "that you wish me to order a full muster of the Empire, and send a vast armada to Middle-earth in the fashion of Tar-Minarstir?"

"It would be the only way to finally defeat Mordor," I said, "but such a muster is entirely the King's prerogative." Were I the King, I decided, I would have already pulled Barad-dûr down around Sauron's ears. I wondered if my uncle was actually going to do something brave for the first time in his life.

"Pharazôn, I take it that if such a force were sent, you would be seeking the command?"

"Why, uncle, only if you deemed me worthy of such an honour," I said. In truth, I would be Inziladûn's only option. The King's leg injuries and distaste for war prevented him from personally commanding, Gimilkhâd would prefer to lose the war rather than give his brother a victory, and it would be unprecedented for someone outside the royal family to lead such an undertaking. That left me, and the King knew it.

"And are you aware how much your proposed invasion would cost the treasury?"

"Wars are always expensive, uncle. But with the wealth we have brought back, the Empire is in a position to easily pay for the costs."

"Pharazôn, you are asking me to take vast sums of money out of the public purse, and send many men to their deaths, merely so that you can win fame as the commander who defeated Sauron of Mordor."

I had expected my uncle to object with the Faithful arguments that Zimraphel had used the other night. This was unexpected.

"It is not about me," I said, feeling myself beginning to sweat, "it is about liberating the Men of Middle-earth from the grip of the Dark Lord…"

"Something that has already been achieved," said the King. "For a given value of liberation, that is. Somehow I suspect that you never asked those savages whether they wanted your freedom before you butchered them. But as for Sauron: if what you say is true, and I am sure, Pharazôn, you would never dare lie to me, he is now safely penned up behind his mountains. For the foreseeable future he will only have orcs to torment."

I was fighting a losing battle here. "But, uncle, think of your legacy!"

"My legacy," said Inziladûn, getting to his feet, "is in seeking to return this land to the path of righteousness. So, sorry to disappoint you, nephew, but I will not order a Númenórean assault upon Mordor. I bid you good night."

"But uncle…"

"My steward will find rooms for you, allowing you to return to your estates in the morning. I trust that you will remember what I have said about your father's lies."

The King left the room, his cane tapping on the polished floorboards as he went.

"Pharazôn," said Amandil, "you have gone bright red."

"Thank you, Amandil, that is just what I needed to hear."


	6. Home

**Chapter Six: Home**

"More wine, Pharazôn, dear?"

"No thank you, mother."

Beneath the shade of a large mallorn tree, I sat with my parents enjoying the afternoon breeze. It had been a week since I had returned to the family estate. Our lands lay to the west of Armenelos, close to the foot of rugged Mount Meneltarma. I had always liked it here. It was far enough from the noise and stench of the city that one could find peace, yet it was not too far away should one have to make a journey to the capital. On a clear day, and this was one of those, one could see the royal palace from our upstairs windows.

"So Inziladûn is accusing me of treason," said my father, gritting his teeth. It was not a question.

"Well, someone has been spreading rumours about the Princess' birth," I said. "The King thinks that it is you."

"Why would he think that?"

Because, I thought, you are probably the one who has been doing it? Were Zimraphel disqualified from succession, Gimilkhâd would become the King's Heir, at least until the complication of the Queen's current pregnancy was added in.

"I would not worry too much, Gimilkhâd" said my mother, slicing some more cake. "Your brother was ever prone to fits of anger and the making of toothless threats. Lie low for a bit, and it will be forgotten. Go hunting in the Forostar with your friend Lord Zimilgâr. Take your mind off things in Armenelos for once." My mother was always the wiser of my parents.

"Bah," said my father. "Why should I, the son of a King, have to hide?"

"Because, my dear," said my mother, "you have a large mouth and a small brain, and a talent for making enemies. I love you, Gimilkhâd, but really, one would have thought that after all these years you would have learned."

It was very hard to repress a smile at that. My father blustered, and grumbled, but finally calmed down after another slice of cake. Not before he got crumbs in his beard, however. He was very proud of that beard, my father. In his eyes, only women, boys, and Elves went beardless, and he was profoundly disappointed that I did not emulate him. Of course, I took the view that it is better to go without infernal itchiness than to make some silly point about Elves, but then I had always been a pragmatic man.

"I will be damned though if I will be forced into making a gift to Inziladûn's new child," said my father after a while. "It is just his excuse to humiliate me yet again. As though I am not plagued with enough troubles as it is. I have a wife who lectures me in politics, a brother who wants me dead, and a son whose brain is in his breeches."

"Father!"

"Have you any idea how much time I used to spend apologising to various lords for what you had done to their daughters? I tell you, Pharazôn, it is about time you were married."

"I have just returned to Númenor after fifteen years, bringing riches beyond anyone's wildest imaginings," I said. "I have other things to think about." Such as forcing Inziladûn to accept that war with Mordor was inevitable.

"All the better," interjected my mother. "Your newfound wealth makes you a sound marriage prospect. Perhaps you might attempt to woo Princess Zimraphel?"

That was a surprise. "Mother, under the laws of Númenor, a man cannot marry his uncle's daughter," I said. It was frustrating that even my mother would countenance such a prospect. With sufficient discretion, I could have Zimraphel's bed, but never her hand. "Moreover, the Princess is already betrothed, and the King would never consent to such a marriage."

"The betrothal is a farce, and Ar-Inziladûn will not live forever," said my mother bluntly. I shivered. She had that same tone that Zimraphel had used that night in Rómenna. What was it with Númenórean women?

"But the laws…" I protested.

"My brother has shown what the laws of Númenor are worth," grumbled my father. "Besides, the tradition dates back to the time when we slavishly followed the Elves on all matters. It is time for Númenor to adopt new customs!"

"Let me put it this way," my mother said. "Zimraphel may be a member of the Faithful, but she cannot have any great love for her father, if indeed he plans on repealing the laws of Tar-Aldarion. Nor will she have any great love for a throne-stealing brother. Winning her over through marriage will strengthen you no end, and the King is now past his one hundred and eightieth year. He is old, so any new heir will be very young when he succeeds…"

Such talk would have us all executed if it came to the ears of my uncle. I remembered Amandil's warning about the King hearing all. Inziladûn had taken the name Tar-Palantír the Farsighted. Could he see and hear us now? I doubted it: we were not in Armenelos, but were instead safe on our own estates, behind strong walls, and our slaves were utterly loyal. Yet, I could not help but feel that caution might be the best policy.

"I shall think on what you have said," I said.

My mother brightened visibly. "Thank you, dear," she said. "Remember that we are just trying to do the best for you, even if your father gets a bit enthusiastic at times."

"Nonsense, woman," spat my father. "But yes, I think I will take your advice, and go hunting with Zimilgâr until matters cool down. Speaking of cooling down, that breeze is picking up. I am going inside." He brushed the crumbs from his beard, and left us. My mother and I watched him go. Even without needing a cane, Gimilkhâd walked with a gait similar to that of the brother he hated so much.

"Would you care for the last slice of cake, Pharazôn?" said my mother. "You look so thin these days."

I took the cake. It was very rich. "Years spent on rations will do that to a man," I said, with my mouth full. "Between you and Lord Raphizôn, I suspect I am well on the route back to health."

She beamed. "Your father means well, you do know that, don't you?" she said.

I nodded. "It is just that with a father like him, one hardly needs enemies."

"Yes, your father never was the brightest of men. But you have to understand, Pharazôn, that he has spent his entire life in another man's shadow. It would be hard enough had his elder brother been a normal man. But Ar-Inziladûn has spent his life tormenting your father, as though it will somehow avenge the slights committed against his precious Faithful. Gimilkhâd has been hurt so badly for so long that he has become consumed by bitterness."

I had rarely heard my mother speak like this. "I thought he was always my grandfather's favourite," I said, finishing off the cake.

My mother sighed. "Your father craved love as a child, as he indeed still does. He thought by embracing his own father's hatred of the Faithful, that it would gain him Ar-Gimilzôr's approval. It made your grandfather smile, yes, but a King has many other things to worry about, and as for your grandmother Queen Inzilabêth, well, she made your uncle the man he is today. Gimilkhâd never got the love he so desired."

"And now?"

"After Inziladûn ascended the throne, Gimilkhâd clung to his beliefs because he felt it was all he had. If truth be told, I do not even believe he is that hostile to the Elves at all. He simply hates whatever Inziladûn loves, and loves whatever Inziladûn hates, and will do so until the day he dies."

I was not quite sure what to say to that. For many years I had always seen my father as something of an embarrassment: a petulant, angry man who felt that he had been robbed of the throne by accident of birth. Now, after so long, I felt that I was seeing another side of him.

"Thank you, mother," I said.

She smiled. "Do not mention it, Pharazôn. I will say though that I have always been relieved that you have taken after my side of the family. A man should have brains, after all, and brains have been sorely lacking in the royal house for far too many centuries." Suddenly looking up at the sky, she added "we had best be going inside. It is clouding over, and it looks like rain is coming."

I turned my head. Sure enough, angry storm clouds were approaching from the east. Shouting some instructions to the slaves, we went indoors.


	7. Meneltarma

**Chapter Seven: Meneltarma**

A few weeks later, I found myself sitting upon a large flat boulder eating an apple. It was a warm day, with no wind, and the Sun was directly overhead. I was sweating, for not only did the eastern foothills of Mount Meneltarma afford a pleasant view out over the grain fields of Orrostar, but traversing them was good, healthy exercise. A man needs to exert himself from time to time, lest he become bored and restive. Down below I could clearly see the sprawling expanse of Armenelos, with the royal palace sitting atop its hill. Further on, towards the horizon, lay Rómenna and its harbour, though I would have to climb higher to see them properly. There was a touch of wildness about this place, which reminded me a bit of Middle-earth. Around me were bushes, rocks, and some stunted trees, with a fair bit of long grass. Above me, the slope got markedly steeper. I had no intention of going too far up there. Not because I was unfit, or because the terrain was too difficult, but because the summit was the domain of my uncle and his pretentious piety. Thrice-yearly he still made his way up the ancient spiralling road, to make ritual thanksgivings to Eru. Even when he was younger he had to go up in a litter carried by slaves, for whilst the road was cut to allow a gentle slope, the distance was too far for his ruined legs. I could only be thankful that he had given up forcing the entire royal family to make his pilgrimages with him.

I had finished the apple, and was about to resume my walk when I heard a voice calling out.

"Pharazôn!"

I turned. A figure was climbing the hill towards me. It was Zimraphel. She was garbed in rather more humble attire than she had been at dinner, wearing a light travelling cloak, a brown tunic, belted at the waist, and black leather boots. She carried a basket.

"What an unexpected surprise, cousin," I said. "What is the King's little girl doing out here?"

"I might ask you the same question, Pharazôn. Since when does the son of Gimilkhâd go to pay his respects to Eru?"

"It is quite possible, dear Zimraphel, for a man to walk the foothills of the Mountain without making the journey to the summit."

"I'm aware of that, cousin. It seems your detection of irony is not what it once was."

"And yourself?" I said. "Why the basket?"

"Silphium-weed grows on these slopes. I thought I would take the opportunity to collect some while I was visiting the hallows." She held out the basket. Sure enough, it was half-full of dry green leaves. Silphium-weed was a medicinal plant, used to treat sore throats and such like. It was also an ingredient in concoctions that women drank to avoid pregnancy. Giving it to an already pregnant woman, however, was a recipe for disaster. I knew that much.

"Worried that your bedtime activities might go wrong, cousin?" I said.

"Oh, one can never have enough on hand," said Zimraphel, smiling. "Bedding the likes of you is bad enough. Can you imagine how my father's poor old heart would break if I became pregnant with your child? But no, this is not for me. It is for a friend."

There was more to this than met the eye, but I let it be. I also decided against telling her of my parent's wishes for marriage. That would have to wait for later, when the dead hand of Inziladûn ceased to rule our lives. "For someone who may well have found themselves passed over in the line of succession," I said, "you seem surprisingly cheerful. I would have thought that you would spend a year or two weeping into your perfumed cushions."

"I think you will find, cousin, that Númenórean women are made of sterner stuff," said Zimraphel. "If the King wishes to revisit the laws of Tar-Aldarion, then so be it. He might find he has less support than he thinks. But, as for me, I am visiting the hallows to thank Eru for granting my parents another child." Once more she smiled enigmatically. "Do you wish to accompany me?"

"No, thank you, Zimraphel. Your father rather soured me on the summit some years ago. His thanksgiving ceremonies are mind-numbingly dull, and the fruit left from previous years always makes a disgusting rotten mess."

Not only that, but it was the sheer pointlessness that had always annoyed me. My uncle, for all his piety, had never even managed to entice the Eagles of Manwë to make an appearance. The Valar, it was all-too clear, were no longer listening to Men, so why try to curry favour with them?

"But we have so much to discuss on the journey up," she said, winking. "I have some advice for you."

I sighed. "Oh, very well then." I suddenly had the pleasant but blasphemous image of bedding Zimraphel on the summit, enjoying her warm flesh beneath the open sky as Eru himself looked on in dismay. I swiftly dismissed the mad thoughts from my mind. Zimraphel was not as pious as the King thought, but it was hard to imagine anything more outrageous, short of, say, cutting down Nimloth the White Tree.

It was a short distance, past some bushes, to the road, and from there the upward slope was gentle.

"So, Pharazôn," said Zimraphel , as we walked side by side, spiralling round the peak,"you still wish to launch an assault on Sauron of Mordor?"

"Of course," I said. "But you and your father are completely unable to see reason."

"My father, yes. But as for me, I thought you would have learned by now not to take me at face value."

What game was she playing? "Speak plainer," I said.

"Pharazôn, I said I wished to offer you advice. I ask you now to think: who would be able to change the King's mind about attacking Mordor?"

"No-one," I said. "Certainly not me, and probably not you. Not even Lord Numendil of Andunië, after the mess with Melendur."

"Think again, Pharazôn."

This was infuriating. "My father?" I said. "If Gimilkhâd came out in public opposition to an attack on Sauron, Inziladûn would do it in a heartbeat."

Zimraphel laughed. "Very droll, Pharazôn, but no."

I shrugged. "No-one on this island has the ability to change your father's mind. It would take a sign from the Valar, or something similar to bring him around, and we all know that the Valar have abandoned Men."

"You're forgetting to whom you speak."

"Yes," I said, conceding the point. "But you know what I mean."

Zimraphel sighed. "You foolish man. Do I need to spoon-feed you everything? You are right. No-one on this island can change Tar-Palantír's mind. But there are beings not of this island that could convince my father to attack Sauron. High King Gil-galad of the Noldorin Exiles, for instance."

The Elves! Of course! Inziladûn adored all things Elvish. They were practically demigods in his eyes. Gil-galad would be able to win over my uncle.

"But how would I win over Gil-galad?" I said, thinking aloud. "I am hardly a renowned Elf-friend!"

"Visit him in Lindon. Tell him that Númenor has the strength to end Sauron's menace forever, and that only the doubts of our King prevent us from doing so."

"And what if he shuns me?"

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," said Zimraphel. A snail was crawling across the road. She crushed it beneath her boot. "Take Amandil with you if you wish to enhance your Faithful credentials. Gil-galad knows the Lords of Andunië."

It was an idea breath-taking in its audacity. That I, son of Gimilkhâd, grandson of Ar-Gimilzôr should cross the Sea to meet with an Elf lord? Still, if that is what it would take to change the mind of that pathetic old man in Armenelos, then so be it. I pondered the idea all the way up the Mountain.

When we finally reached the flat summit of Meneltarma, Zimraphel gave me a knowing look, as if to ensure that I would obey the ancient protocol. No-one save the King of Númenor was permitted to speak in this place, and then only to give thanks to Eru. My uncle had drilled that into me the very first time he had dragged me up here. But my uncle was not here now. It was just Zimraphel and I, with the world at our feet.

Zimraphel closed her eyes and bowed her head. More interested in the view than in appealing to a being that had so obviously turned His back on humanity, I wandered around the summit looking down. The sheer height of Meneltarma can be unnerving. On my previous visits we had been slightly above the clouds, an experience that was decidedly eerie. Today, there were no clouds, and the island was laid out before us like a map. The five great peninsulas were visible, thrusting out into the calm blue Sea. The cities were large patches of white amidst the green fields. The rivers, Siril and Nunduinë, the woods of Andustar: they were all there. I tried looking westwards towards the horizon. Legend has it that on clear days our far-sighted forefathers could see the towers of Tol Eressëa from this place. Now, however, the Sun was starting to sink, blinding me with light, so I was unable to see anything. Or perhaps the old legends lie, who knows?

Eventually Zimraphel opened her eyes. Silently, she took me by the hand, and led me back down the Mountain.


	8. Unpleasantness in Armenelos

**Chapter Eight: Unpleasantness in Armenelos **

I was sitting beneath Nimloth reading a Council scroll when the screaming started. Loud and varied, it was clearly emanating from the throats of both men and women. I looked up from my reading, narrowing my eyes as I concentrated on the sudden noise. Yes, the screaming definitely came from within the Palace, most likely from one of the upper levels. I rolled up the scroll and got to my feet. That something was up was now all-too obvious. Soldiers and slaves alike came running through the Palace Gardens towards the side doorway that connected the outer courtyard with the interior. As the fellows swept past, I called out to them. It was in vain: not one of the men stopped or even acknowledged me. As the last of them disappeared through the doorway, I drew my sword, and swiftly followed. Had Inziladûn been murdered? Had a slave revolt started? I needed to find out.

Inside, in one of the foyers, I found a gathering of chamber maids. Each of the serving girls were in tears, blubbering away as though they had been rejected by their lovers. Three of them were clustered around a large bronze sculpture from the time of Tar-Aldarion. All three either had their heads in their hands, or were sobbing on shoulders. A fourth was sprawled on the floor in front of me, bellowing like a wounded boar, as tears rolled down her cheeks. This one may have been pretty or plain, but with her face so contorted by grief it was impossible to tell. I kicked her.

"What is happening?" I asked urgently.

"The blood!" howled the maid. "The blood!" She crawled into a ball and resumed crying.

There was no further use in questioning her, so I let her be, and followed the screams. Yes, I thought, definitely the upper levels. Indeed, they seemed to be coming from the royal bed chamber. Had something befallen old Inziladûn or his wife? Climbing the stairs, I had just gained the landing when I spotted my uncle, red faced and shouting at a group of terrified slaves. He looked as though he were about to strike them with his stick.

"Uncle!" I called out, sheathing my sword, "what is all this commotion?"

He turned. There was fire in his eyes. And tears, many tears. "My wife, you imbecile," he shouted, "my wife. These foolish cretins murdered my wife. They have killed both her and my new child!" Inziladûn belted a slave, who went down clutching his head.

Queen Gimilbêth, murdered? My jaw dropped. "How?" I said.

"They made her ill. It was murder, I tell you, murder!"

"My King," said another slave, "many women die in childbirth. It is the way of Eru." Inziladûn struck him too, and that sent the others running.

"I'll have all your heads for this!" my uncle shouted after them. He shook his cane.

"You have my deepest sympathy," I said quietly, when only myself and the King remained. "To lose both wife and child at once…"

To be honest, even I don't know whether I was being sincere. I was too shocked to think clearly.

"I don't want your mealy-mouthed platitudes!" spat Inziladûn. "They murdered her. It wasn't childbirth. She wasn't due for another three months. She became ill. The physicians gave her herbs. Said she needed to rest. Then the bleeding started. Then…" Inziladûn began to weep. The most powerful man in the world stood in tears before me, defeated.

"Does Míriel know?" I said. It felt undeniably peculiar to use Zimraphel's Elvish name, but calling her anything else would have caused the King to erupt again.

"Míriel isn't here. She's gone into the city for the day."

"I will see that word is sent to her at once," I said. I knew enough palace gossip to make a reasonably shrewd guess where Zimraphel had gone.

"Yes, go do something useful for a change," snapped Inziladûn. "Go and fetch her. But leave me here. I need to think. Yes, my dear Pharazôn, I need to think. Vengeance is needed for this, and blood must flow."

The King was often making grandiose threats, but somehow I felt that this time was different. A cold shiver went up my spine.

"Yes, uncle," I said, bowing and hurrying away. At the top of the stairs I glanced over my shoulder. Inziladûn was going back into the bed chamber, closing the door behind him. I took a deep breath and ran to the barracks to find the Captain of the Royal Guards.

Captain Nâmalzôr had a dark beard that even my father would have approved of. An old campaigner who had seen his fair share of battles, but savvy enough to survive the political twists and turns of both Ar-Gimilzôr and Ar-Inziladûn, the man was steady and reliable, if perhaps a bit dutiful for my tastes. I had got to know him well during earlier campaigns in Middle-earth. He was reading some reports when I found him.

"Yes, Lord Pharazôn?" he said.

I told him of the chaos that was erupting within the Palace, and of the Queen's death. Nâmalzôr's eyes widened. He whistled. "The King seeks blood, you say?"

"The King always seeks blood," I said. "This time, however, I suspect he is going to find what he seeks. And incidentally I need to borrow some of your guardsmen."

"For what purpose? There is no looting within the Palace is there?" He began to rise to his feet.

"No, but I need to fetch the Princess. The King says that she has ventured into the city for the day."

Nâmalzôr grimaced. He too knew the gossip. "So she's gone to visit that pathetic young fop again, has she?"

"More than likely," I said. "A shame that the King's Heir finds herself so infatuated with a man who knows nothing of warfare."

"Aye," said Nâmalzôr, nodding approval. "Too many young nobles are too damn soft these days. A campaign or two in Middle-earth would soon sort them out."

I could only smile at that. "Indeed," I said.

Sure enough, Zimraphel was where I knew I would find her. It was a luxurious townhouse in Armenelos' inner city: too grand for a merchant but not grand enough to compare to even a provincial palace. A thousand petty nobles had houses such as this, each one hoping that the minor prestige associated with hosting dinner parties would bring them to the attention of the Royal Court. I knew the type, and found them pathetic, though I rarely said it to their faces, and indeed often pretended to befriend them. Ambitious petty nobles have their uses, and are cheaper to buy off than great lords. Besides, some of them have attractive wives, sisters, and daughters.

I entered the room with Nâmalzôr's men to find my cousin lolling on cushions, popping grapes into her mouth. Her foppish young friend sat beside her, holding a goblet. His blue doublet was stained, and he reeked of mediocre wine. I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

"Pharazôn," the fop said, slurring my name. "A pleasure to see you. Have some wine."

"No thank you," I said. A small monkey crawled around the floor munching dates. "I have come to collect my cousin."

The man giggled. "So you fancy her too, eh? Let me tell you…"

I hit him. Perhaps it was annoyance, perhaps jealousy, but either way, I hit him. It was also immensely satisfying. The fop went sprawling. Nâmalzôr's guardsmen looked on with thinly disguised approval but Zimraphel popped another grape into her mouth as though nothing had happened.

"Damn you," cursed the fop, blood dripping from his nose. "I'll…"

I ignored him. "Sorry to disrupt your afternoon, Zimraphel," I said, "but the King wants you back at the Palace immediately."

"Really?" she said. "And since when has Pharazôn son of Gimilkhâd been my father's messenger?"

She had me there. "Today it is important. Come."

"Very well, Pharazôn," she said in a bored tone. "Since you insist, though only the Valar know what is so important." She got to her feet, decidedly more sober than her companion. I decided that I would wait until returning to the Palace before telling her the news. For all Zimraphel's inner steel, telling anyone of the sudden death of their mother has the potential to end badly, and it could only get worse in a place such as this.

The fop was sobbing. "Come back, Princess," he whimpered. Then from somewhere he pulled out a knife, and waved it around. "Damn you, come back!"

The wine had made him clumsy and slow to react. I knocked the knife from his hand, and kicked him in the stomach. Zimraphel raised an eyebrow. "Feeling especially violent today, Pharazôn?" she said. One of the guardsmen sniggered.

"Whatever did you see in that fool?" I said, as we left the house. "Or were you just pitying the poor wretch?"

"He amused me," said Zimraphel. "Besides, the grapes were good, and I got him to name the monkey 'Pharazôn.'"


	9. The Wrath of Inziladûn

**Chapter Nine: The Wrath of Inziladûn**

Zimraphel and I watched as the Queen was laid to rest. Inziladûn, in accordance with millennia of tradition, was having his beloved consort entombed in the silent valley of Noirinan beneath Meneltarma. My cousin was clad in black mourning garments, as was I, but as we stood there, it occurred to me that Zimraphel had not shed a single tear over her mother's death.

"Do you think the King will marry again?" I said to her after the ceremony, both of us safely out of earshot.

"My father is old and broken," said Zimraphel, quietly. "He will not wed again."

The three days of thanksgiving that Inziladûn had planned for his new child gave way to a period of mourning throughout the island. For all the King's unpopularity, the Queen had always been viewed with affection by both lembas eaters and King's Men alike, and there was much outpouring of genuine emotion. Grown men cried in the streets of Armenelos, while even my parents managed to write a letter of condolence to the Palace. It all seems so quaint and naïve in hindsight. For within weeks, the terror began. I first learned of it whilst riding through Armenelos' main square one morning on my way to see a friend, or, more accurately, a friend's wife. A number of Palace Guardsmen were nailing up some parchments. On closer inspection, one of the Guardsmen turned out to be Nâmalzôr.

"Hello there," I called out to him.

He turned. "Greetings, my lord," he called back. "If you will excuse me for being a bit hasty, your uncle has ordered us to nail a hundred of these things up before noon."

I rode up and halted. "What are they?" I asked.

Nâmalzôr sighed. "Lists of state enemies," he said. "Still believing that his wife's death was a conspiracy, your uncle has decided to purge the land of traitors."

I felt ill. "He hasn't named my father yet, has he?"

"Not yet," said the Captain. "The King hasn't touched the great lords yet, let alone those of the line of Elros, but those further down are in panic. There's many a merchant in these lists too."

So typical of my uncle, I thought. Rather than going after those lords with the capacity to defy the throne, he was bullying the lower orders, who were completely unable to fight back. Perhaps Raphizôn, as an organiser of Númenor's last round of treason trials, was going to have to dust off his inquisitorial skills.

Bidding farewell to Nâmalzôr, I continued on to my destination. My friend was out, but his wife was at home, which more than made up for things. If anything, she was more eager than I. Then, in the midst of our passionate kissing, I foolishly mentioned Inziladûn's intended purge. That killed my companion's ardour stone dead. Pulling away from me, the woman turned so pale she became practically ghost-like.

"What is the matter?" I said.

She told me that her brother had recently got drunk at a local inn, making an utter fool of himself in the process. This would not normally be a cause for worry, she said, but this time her brother had loudly mocked Inziladûn's crippled legs.

"Is my brother to be purged?" she asked.

"How am I to know?" I snapped, frustrated at the interruption. "I was too far away to see the names, and I hardly know what goes on in my uncle's mind."

That started an argument, and, King's nephew or no, I soon found myself thrown out of the house, and forced to make my way back through the city. As I rode through the streets, seeing the grim parchments nailed up, my doubts about the situation began to grow. I decided to go and see Zimraphel.

"How long do you think your father's terror will last? And will it spread to the greater nobility?" I said, pacing the floor of her Palace apartment.

Still wearing the funeral black, she shrugged. "I do not know, Pharazôn. I have never seen my father like this. He has hidden himself away, and rarely comes out, even for meals."

"You seem very relaxed about all this."

"I am his only child," she said. "With Gimilkhâd and yourself next in line, I am above suspicion." The tone of her voice suggested that she thought she was a unique case.

"But," I said, "As my father and I are a bit more expendable, I take it we are not above suspicion?"

Actually, my father had never got himself out of suspicion, and it remained to be seen how Inziladûn would deal with him. Or even me. So much depended on whether the King's paranoia about individuals would overcome his paranoia about rebellion.

"That is your affair."

"Zimraphel, you can be supremely insensitive."

"Sensitivity is a dangerous thing."

In the event, the terror lasted longer than most people had expected. Week in week out, Inziladûn would perch himself on his golden throne and pronounce death sentences upon hapless victims. It was all staged, of course. The sentences always followed panicked confessions. More than a few of those being arrested for treason sent desperate letters to me, asking me to intervene on their behalf. I always burnt the letters, and pretended that I had never known these people in my life. Finally, utterly sick of Armenelos, I decided to retire to the family estate until my uncle's paranoia had extinguished itself.

Even that proved to be impossible. "Sorry, Lord Pharazôn," said a guard at our gate, "orders have arrived from the capital. Your parents are to be confined to the estates until further notice, and you are to be prohibited from seeing them."

That beggared belief. "The King wishes to prevent me from seeing my own parents on my own estates?" I exclaimed incredulously. "Is my uncle insane?"

The guard, a family friend, sighed. "I think, my lord," he said, "that answer to both those questions is 'yes'."

My next attempt was to see Amandil in Andunië. Andunië had suffered less than some of the other cities during Inziladûn's terror, primarily because its people benefited from having such a strong lembas- eating reputation. Even so, Amandil looked depressed, and old Numendil his father had turned to drink to block out the horror of the news from Armenelos.

"As a member of the Faithful, I never thought I would say this," said Amandil, as we sat in the library, "but I long to hear the sound of our native tongue being used without fear. Fear stalks this city as much as any other, less obviously than it does in Armenelos, but even so, a dark cloud hangs over us too. Men speak Quenya to strangers or are silent."

"Your wife must be delighted," I said.

Amandil smiled wryly. "Yes, she is. My dear beloved wife tells anyone who bothers to listen that Númenor needs to be purged of centuries of sin and depravity, and that Inziladûn is merely paying back the perpetrators of Ar-Gimilzôr's crimes with their own coin."

I winced. That sounded like the shrew that Amandil had been forced into marrying. "I haven't seen Elendil yet. How is the young fellow?"

"Obsessed with all things Elvish."

"My uncle's ideal Númenórean. A Man who believes he is something else other than a Man."

Amandil shook his head. "I know what you think of the Faithful, Pharazôn, but believe me, there is much good to be found in Elendil's inquisitiveness. He has pride in our nation, and, one day, I believe he will carry all the hopes of this island and its people."

A plan began to form in my mind. "You say that Elendil is obsessed with all things Elvish. Has he ever actually met any Elves?"

"Of course not. The King himself has never met an Elf, for all his devout praying atop Tar-Minarstir's tower."

"How would your son like to meet an Elf?"

Amandil frowned. "I don't follow you."

I smiled. "I am planning a voyage to Lindon to see Gil-galad, the High King of the Noldor. Perhaps you might let Elendil accompany me."

My old friend could not have been more surprised if I had told him that I had located the lost gemstones of Fëanor.

"You?" he exclaimed. "Going to see Gil-galad? Your father would have a fit."

"My father is not exactly in a position to find out," I said dryly. It was true enough. "Moreover, I believe that my royal uncle will listen to counsel from the High-King of the Noldor. Perhaps he can convince Tar-Palantír to cease his terrible vengeance."

Or perhaps even persuade him to turn that desire for vengeance against Sauron of Mordor, I thought, recalling Zimraphel's suggestion.

Amandil had brightened considerably. "What an excellent notion!" he said. "I would offer to come with you, but my father has become ill in recent months, and needs all the support I can give him. But, yes," he said, "I see Elendil jumping at the chance to accompany you on such a voyage."

"Excellent," I said.


	10. A Voyage to Lindon

**Chapter Ten: A Voyage to Lindon**

With the prodigious wealth I had stored away in the island's banking houses, it was a relatively simple task to arrange a ship, and within a month everything was ready. Unlike my previous voyages to Middle-earth, I was departing from Andunië, rather than Rómenna; the havens of Amandil's city were perfectly adequate for my purposes, and the less contact with the likes of Raphizôn in the current political climate, the better. In the meantime, I had the run of Amandil's home, old Lord Numendil being too sick and too drunk to object. Andunië was a pleasant city, quieter and more thoughtful than Armenelos or Rómenna, and during the evenings, I frequently went for walks along the edge of the harbour. The skyline of the city was, of course, dominated by Tar-Minastir's tower, which sat upon a nearby hill. Looking at the sheer height of it, I almost felt sorry for my uncle having to continually climb those steps with his crippled legs and his cane. Well, the man was devoted, I would give him that.

Elendil proved to be a tall and sullen young man. He was frosty towards me, no doubt hearing from his mother about the depravities of King's Men. For my part, I made a point of keeping my depravity to a minimum, lest that thrice-damned woman intervene to stop her son travelling. Not that I got any gratitude for my uncharacteristically wholesome behaviour: neither mother nor son would speak more than a few words to me, and Elendil could often be heard muttering to himself in Elvish. I could not for the life of me understand what Amandil saw in this son of his. If the future of our people hinged on this lad, I decided, then Númenor was probably doomed.

The day of departure came. Our ship, small but fast, was well-provisioned, and had an experienced captain and crew. Amandil had also provided some of his father's guardsmen to keep watch over his son. I told Amandil that such precautions were not necessary: I had men of my own in my employ, but my old friend shook his head, and said that it was the only way he could convince his wife to let Elendil out of her sight. As it was, Amandil's wife was there on the docks to see us off. She said nothing to me, but hugged Elendil before he boarded. I noticed she did not wave as we hauled anchor and set sail. That woman approved of nothing.

The winds were favourable, as we made our way west, then north, around the coastline.

"Fortune favours us today," I said to Elendil, as we watched the cliffs of our island slide past.

"How so?" Elendil towered over me like some sort of mortal Meneltarma. It was quite disconcerting.

"The sky is clear, the Sea is blue, and the winds are as we desire. We are strong and healthy, the epitome of the greatest Empire the world has ever known. What more could a man wish for on such a morning?" Other than women for company, I thought, but Elendil was less tolerant of ribald jests than his father. Indeed, it would not have surprised me to learn that he was still a virgin.

"Our Empire is rotten to the core," he said grimly. He was parroting his mother, I supposed. In her fortuitous absence this was something that needed to be set aright.

"Have you ever been to Armenelos, lad?" I said, wishing that Amandil had been more forceful a father. "Have you seen the cities and towns that have grown up along the coastline of Middle-earth?"

"No," said Elendil, sulkily. It was as I thought. For all his physical stature, in his mind he was still a little boy dominated by his mother. He needed to learn a thing or two about life, with all its pleasures and uncertainties. A campaign would do the trick. I made a mental note to enlist him should I ever lead a force against Mordor.

"Our 'rotten Empire' brought civilisation to the dark reaches of the world," I said. "We saved Middle-earth, throwing off the dark shackles of Mordor. Were it not for us, Sauron of Barad-dûr, not my uncle, would be the King of Men."

Given the recent behaviour of my uncle, the cynical side of me privately noted that that might not necessarily have been a good thing. But even the lembas eaters agreed that Sauron was bad, so the argument still held. I'd had enough practice debating Inziladûn and Zimraphel over the years, and this Elendil was hardly as formidable as them.

"But we neglect the White Tree," the young man said. Beliefs can be obstinate things. "Everything that was good and great about Númenor was given to us by the Elves and Valar, yet we reject them and fear them. Our people are too arrogant." He wiped his nose.

I smiled. "Elendil," I said, completely patronising the poor fellow, "Men have to make our own way in this world. So the old myths say that the Gods raised our land from beneath the Sea. It may even be true. But we are not pets or perpetual children, forever obligated to bow and scrape before our betters. The Númenórean Empire has been built with the blood and steel of our people alone. Thank them, not the Elves."

"But Nimloth…"

"Is a tree," I said. "A very pretty tree, to be sure, and it is a shame that my grandfather neglected it. Ar-Gimilzôr never was the arboreal type. But it is nothing mystical or special about the White Tree of Armenelos. Believe me, I've seen it."

Unlike you, I thought, who has spent their entire life being cossetted by a mad woman in Andunië.

"Tar-Palantír on his last visit to Tar-Minastir's tower said that if the White Tree failed, the line of Elros would fail."

"Did he indeed?" I said, genuinely surprised. Not that Nimloth was in any immediate danger of failing. It was just that there was no obvious political advantage to be gained from such a statement. I would have to give the matter some thought.

"Yes," said Elendil. "I was there. The King was just getting into his litter to go back to Armenelos, when I heard him say it to Lord Numendil my grandfather."

"Did the King say anything else during his visit?"

"Not that I can recall."

Worth a try, I thought. Elendil was young and naïve; who knew what information he might cough up? As the next few weeks revealed, the lad actually rather excelled at coughing up, though not in a nice way: Elendil had had little experience of long sea voyages, and, much to my private amusement, was frequently afflicted with horrific bouts of sea-sickness. I saw little of him during that time, and when I did see him, much of his conversation was peppered with queries as to how much longer the voyage would last

In the event, the ship made very good time, and it was not long before the twin coasts of Forlindon and Harlindon hove into view. The Blue Mountains, heavily wooded and with a small coating of snow, dominated the horizon.

"Of old, there were Dwarven cities in those Mountains," said Elendil. Looking rather less green today, he had ventured above deck. "They were destroyed by the breaking of Beleriand."

"There are few Dwarves there today," I said. "If you're looking for Dwarves, you really can't go past Khazad-dûm. That's many leagues away, beneath the Misty Mountains."

"I'm not looking for Dwarves," snapped Elendil. "Treacherous backstabbing swine!"

I raised my eyebrows at that. Some men have the oddest prejudices. "Since when have you met a dwarf?"

"I don't need to. It's in all the histories. The Dwarves destroyed Doriath and stole…"

"Who wrote the histories?"

"The Elves did. When I am older, I intend to write a history of Númenor in the style of Pengolodh."

I shook my head. "Don't believe everything you read, lad."

Making our way through the Gulf of Lune, we soon arrived at Harlond, where High-King Gil-galad and his court still dwelt, millennia after most of their race had gone back to Aman. During the reign of my grandfather, some of Númenor's lembas eaters had gone running to Lindon for shelter, and, frankly, no-one had cared. It really says something about the true level of faithfulness among the so-called Faithful that they resort to such self-imposed exile and martyrdom at the slightest criticism. Inziladûn treated my father like mud, yet neither I nor Gimilkhâd had ever considered abandoning our ancestral homeland. Under my uncle, of course, most of those exiles had then returned to Númenor, though from what I remembered, there were still quite a few Men left in Lindon. They weren't likely to be pleasant to me, but then that was why I had brought Elendil.

Harlond was small, and lacked the vibrancy of Rómenna or Andunië. It was quiet, melancholy, and somewhat alien. As I came ashore, I felt as though I were stepping back in time, a feeling only enhanced by the gentle mist that was starting to sink over the harbour. We encountered our first Elves before long. Strolling around the wharf, they were tall, thin, and pale. Most had long, dark hair, finer than you would ever see on a mortal, but it was their eyes that truly set them apart. There was something unholy and terrifying about those eyes: millennia of anger, bitterness, spite, and desire compressed into a single mind. 'Deep wells of memory' some have described them, but I think cauldrons of memory more fitting, and that which rises to the surface is not necessarily friendly to mortals. Inziladûn was mad to worship them, I realised, utterly mad. It was like a mouse worshipping a cat.

Elendil, who walked with me, had no such qualms. He was merrily calling out in Quenya to everyone we passed. That he only got quizzical looks or polite nods in reply did not dent his enthusiasm. It was only when some tall figures in chainmail marched up to us that I realised our presence had finally been noticed.


	11. An Encounter with Elves

**Chapter Eleven: An Encounter with Elves**

The figures in chainmail were Elvish, of course, and neither I nor the couple of men I had brought along could understand a word. This was balanced out by the fact that the Elvish guardsmen were similarly unable to understand Adûnaic, as evidenced by their lack of response to our slow and careful questions. The encounter may have resulted in bloodshed, embarrassment, hand gestures, or some combination of the three, but fortunately Elendil was more than willing to act as a go-between translator. I knew I had made a sound decision in taking the lad with me.

"He says 'why do you come armed to this land'?," said Elendil to me, after one of the Elves barked something at us. "Also, he says to speak Sindarin. He once served Thingol of Doriath, and hates Quenya."

Not being able to speak Sindarin either, this made no great difference to me. "Tell him we come in peace, and that we wish to see King Gil-galad."

Elendil translated that into what was presumably Sindarin. The Elves glowered at us with their hideously ancient eyes, and then nodded. One of them muttered something.

"He says that you may see Gil-galad, but that you must hand over your weapons before you enter the High-King's presence," said Elendil.

I consulted with my men. It seemed a reasonable request. "Tell him we accept."

Elendil translated, while I undid my sword belt and handed it to one of the Elves. My men did likewise, as did Elendil. We were then led through the streets of Harlond to a large central hall. Part wood, part stone it was no more inherently impressive than any building one would find in central Armenelos, yet it carried with it a certain intangible flavour entirely lacking in Númenórean architecture.

On entering the hall, I discovered a large fire burning in the centre of the room, the smoke disappearing through a hole in the roof. An Elf with a thin careworn face and dark braided hair stood warming his hands. He was clad in simple green, embroidered with a device of twelve stars. One of the Elvish guardsmen walked over and whispered in his ear. The Elf turned to face us.

"Visitors from Númenor," he said, in accented Adûnaic. "Welcome to our humble abode. I am Ereinion, known as Gil-galad. Alas, but the domain of the High-King of the Noldor is not what it once was. "

"So you can speak our language!" I exclaimed.

The Elf smiled. "Of course. Your tongue is a changeable one, but variants of it are slowly becoming the Common Tongue of these lands. We Elves are what you would call old-fashioned, but we would be poor traders if we did not have a grasp of the language of our neighbours."

"But your guards couldn't understand us!"

"That is what you think," said Gil-galad primly. "Congratulations, by the way, to the young man for his excellent grasp of both Sindarin and Quenya."

Elendil beamed, while I gritted my teeth at the game the guardsmen had been playing.

"May I enquire as to your names?" said the High-King of the Noldor.

"If it please my lord, I am Elendil son of Amandil," said Elendil, bowing. I cringed. One would have thought that he was a servant of the Elf lord, rather than a man of Númenor.

"Amandil? Is your father of the line of the Lords of Andunië, by any chance?"

Elendil nodded. "Yes, my lord. He is the Heir to Lord Numendil."

"A most excellent man your father is too," said the Elf warmly. He turned his gaze to me. "And you would be?"

"Calion," I said, using the Elvish form of my name. I hadn't used in in years, if ever, but I decided that the Elves would appreciate it. "I am nephew of Tar-Palantír, of the line of Elros Tar-Minyatur."

The warmth melted from the Elf's face. "Pharazôn," he said.

I saw no point in denying it. "That is correct. I have spent much time in these lands, but have never visited Lindon."

"So, Pharazôn son of Gimilkhâd, why do you come to our halls?"

"I ask for aid."

Gil-galad laughed haughtily. "You ask for our aid? Is this a jape?" He was as venomous as my uncle, I thought, but the long years of immortality had soured him well beyond Inziladûn's level.

"No," I said, keeping my temper. I told myself I could hardly have expected anything different. "I wish to remind you that we have a common enemy in Sauron of Mordor. Númenor has the ability to crush Mordor if only our Empire put its mind to it."

"So one lot of slave-drivers defeats another lot of slave-drivers. Why should we care?"

What happened next surprised even me. Elendil of all people piped up. "Because there is hope for Númenor."

"Precious little," said Gil-galad.

"But more than there is for Mordor," said Elendil. "Or have the Elves forgotten that they too were once victims of pride and perpetrators of atrocity?"

I wanted to hug the lad. Comparing Mordor with Númenor may have been ludicrous, but he visibly had Gil-galad on the run.

"Númenor has a King who worships Elves," I said, seizing the opportunity. "Yet my uncle refuses to attack Sauron. If you can convince him that an assault on Mordor is necessary, Númenor can purge this great evil from the world. This is the aid I of which I spoke."

"You expect me to sail Númenor and beg your King to change his mind?" His tone was of clear disgust. Gil-galad no doubt thought that such petty political games were above his immortal people. Pointy-eared hypocrite.

"I do not ask that of you," I said. "I merely ask that you write him a missive suggesting an attack on Sauron. My uncle will treat any document with your seal attached as virtually divine."

"You can join forces with our King when he lands," said Elendil eagerly. "An alliance of Men and Elves to combat the Dark Lord of Barad-dûr."

"Re-enacting Tar-Minastir and his armada?" said Gil-galad. "I remember that, back when Númenóreans were still loyal to the Valar. But that was many centuries ago, and for all Tar-Palantír's efforts, the shadow is now too ingrained upon Númenórean hearts. I will not sully my people by marching alongside such Men. But as for the missive, I shall think on it. In the meantime, you may stay in Harlond and enjoy our hospitality."

"Do we get our swords back?" asked one of my men. Later I told him that I was not paying him to ask stupid questions.

"You will have your weapons back when you leave Harlond," said the Elf King. "Not before."

So it was that we spent some weeks at the court of the High-King of the Noldor. I was thoroughly bored very early on in the piece, and had to content myself with playing dice with my men. I generally lost, which did not improve my temper. Elendil naturally loved the Elvish township, and would spend hours speaking with its eldritch inhabitants.

"Did you know, Pharazôn, that my pronunciation was all wrong?" he said to me one day. "I was using the Fëanorian thorn, rather than the more generally accepted 's'. Gil-galad said he hadn't heard the thorn in many centuries, not since Maglor disappeared."

"That's interesting," I said, barely able to conceal my boredom. "Kindly remind Gil-galad that we still await his pleasure."

Finally, as I was seriously contemplating packing up and setting sail without the missive, Gil-galad called us back into his presence. He held a scroll in his hand, which pleased me no end.

"Well, Pharazôn," he said, "I have considered your request, and I have decided just this once to accommodate your wishes. Believe me, I shall only do this on one condition."

"Which is?"

"That you never worm your way into my sight ever again."

I took the scroll, and bowed politely. Getting the missive was what I wanted. As for not encountering Gil-galad again, well, the feelings there were perfectly mutual.

"But as for Elendil here," said Gil-galad, "I feel our young Elf-friend needs some token of our affection to carry home with him. I therefore make you this gift."

A large wooden chest was brought in. The High-King opened it, and Elendil and I looked inside.

"Seven crystal balls?" I scoffed.

Gil-galad gave me a withering look. "These are no crystal balls. They are the palantíri of Fëanor, the seeing stones."

"What do they do?" I asked.

"They see," said Gil-galad. "Now be gone from my sight!"


	12. Something Unexpected

**Chapter Twelve: Something Unexpected**

There were many times on the voyage back when I took Gil-galad's scroll out of its chest and turned it over lovingly in my hands. It was the key to glory, worth more than all the seeing stones in the world, no question. But I dare not break the seal to read it for myself, lest the paranoid old man in Armenelos suspect foul play. How bad had my uncle's terror got in my absence? I was not looking forward to finding out.

"Only those who have something to hide need fear Tar-Palantír," said Elendil to me one day, as I sat in my cabin studying a detailed map of Mordor. I sighed. After his efforts in Lindon, I had thought he was learning.

"More than a few King's Men said much the same during the reign of Ar-Gimilzôr," I said wearily. "Look how that turned out for you Faithful. And shouldn't you be off being sea-sick somewhere?"

Elendil looked affronted. "Ar-Gimilzôr and Tar-Palantír cannot be compared!"

"That is true," I said. "My grandfather neglected a tree. My uncle had whole swathes of the nobility executed because he can't accept that his wife died of natural causes."

Elendil's no doubt stellar reply was interrupted by the arrival of our captain. "My lord, Meneltarma has been sighted," said the seaman.

"Excellent," I said. "It will not be long before we arrive in Andunië." The prospect of returning to Númenor was not as exciting as it been on my last voyage. Familiarity breeds contempt, as the saying goes.

The captain bowed and left.

"I cannot wait to tell everyone in Andunië about my encounter with High-King Gil-galad," said Elendil. "He was most generous."

"No doubt," I said. "Have you tried out the crystal balls yet?"

Elendil smiled. I would have called it smug, were it not for the fact that the lad was so damn naïve.

"No, Pharazôn, that is not how the stones work. You need to separate them out first. They communicate with each other."

"Bah," I said, going back to the map. "Give me a messenger on a fast horse over these Elvish playthings. There are things, Elendil, that Men were not meant to know or do, and tampering with Elvish devices is one of them." I remembered the look in Gil-galad's eyes, and shuddered.

Within the day, we had arrived at Andunië. Though the day was fine, the port was strangely quiet. A few fishermen glared at us as we made our way through the streets. I paid them no mind. On our arrival at Lord Numendil's Palace, Amandil came running down the steps towards us. Embracing his son, he looked as cheerful as I had ever seen him. Soon father and son were chatting away in Elvish about the journey and the adventures in Lindon. It amused me no end, however, to see Amandil look rather indignant when Elendil corrected his pronunciation.

Later that evening, with Elendil having gone to bed early, Amandil and I sat in the library and conversed over some wine.

"So how goes it in Númenor?" I said, sipping the passable vintage. "Is my uncle still hunting after traitors?"

"The treason trials have waned of late," said Amandil. He chewed his cheek thoughtfully. "But that is more to do with the King running out of people to accuse than any great relaxing of Tar-Palantír's zeal. The merchants are grumbling that the terror has been bad for business. "

"Good to know where their priorities lie," I said. Merchants are the same the world over. Men utterly without conscience who think only with their purses.

"Well," said Amandil, "it is more to do with people being too terrified to converse in public, lest they be accused of something. Many merchants were happy for a time to see their competition weeded out, but it is just that the King has dragged his purges out too long to help anybody."

I decided I had heard enough of the poor moneymen. "And my parents?" I asked. "Are they still well?"

Amandil shrugged. "The King has not touched them, as far as I know, but he is known to keep a very close watch on those who leave or enter your family estates. Wise men steer well clear of your family."

"Will I be allowed to visit them?" The prohibition imposed on me still made my blood boil.

"I do not know."

I resolved to find out. Taking my leave from Amandil a few days later, I rode to the family estates. The road was quiet, so I made good time. To my right loomed Meneltarma, cloaked in cloud, and as inscrutable as the madman in Armenelos. It was midday when I arrived. Pulling up outside the gates, I was relieved to find the old guard still in place. So, I thought, the King has seen fit to leave my family retainers alone. That was a start, anyway.

"Greetings, Lord Pharazôn," said the guard. He looked tired.

"Greetings," I said. "I have returned once more from Middle-earth. Am I still prohibited from entering?"

"The prohibition has been lifted," said the guard. "The King knew of your impending arrival, and decided to be magnanimous."

That was both relieving and terrifying. On one hand, it was nice to be able to see my parents; on the other, it was disturbing how swiftly news had come to Inziladûn. He had even had time to send out a messenger to announce his 'generosity'.

"A magnanimous Inziladûn is a dangerous Inziladûn," I muttered, riding on through.

My parents were thinner and visibly older, but both were overjoyed to see me. Notwithstanding that I was dealing with perhaps the two staunchest King's Men in the Empire, much to my amusement I was peppered with questions about Lindon, and Gil-galad.

"Yes," said my father, nodding approval as I told him of my encounter with the Elves. "Elves are dangerous creatures. Men are best leaving such monsters alone."

My mother smiled. "You have no idea how glad we are to see you, Pharazôn. Since the terror began, we have had almost no visitors."

I asked them if they knew of any reason as to why Inziladûn may have had a change of heart. They both shook their heads.

'Perhaps," said my mother, "Ar-Inziladûn has regained his sanity, and the terror is winding down."

"He never had his sanity," muttered my father.

After that, we talked long into the night. It felt good to sit there, carefree, and safe from the brutalities of the outside world. At last, I retired to bed. My dreams were vivid. I was standing there in Mordor, on the very plains of Gorgoroth, at the head of a vast army. Legions of orcs fell before my sword, and Sauron surrendered to us, his forces in utter rout. Laughing, I forced the defeated tyrant to watch as we burnt Barad-dûr. Why, I could almost smell it. Burning…

I awoke with a start. The sharp pang of smoke was in the air. With my old campaign instincts, I immediately shook off the grogginess of sleep. Yes, I realised, this was no dream: the house really was on fire, and I had no time to lose. Leaping from the bed, I ran to the storage chest, and grabbed the precious scroll. Then, having no time to dress, I went in search of my parents.

Wandering through the smoke-filled passage-ways that night was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life, and I have been in many hair-raising situations. I had no idea where the fire had started, or how extensive it had become. All I knew was that I needed to find my parents. They were still asleep, it turned out, and it was only with great effort that I woke them.

Bundling them out of bed, I herded the pair downstairs. My father was coughing, and while it was not cold, he was shivering in his nightgown. My mother seemed to be faring better. Surprisingly, there were no household slaves to be seen: perhaps they were still abed, lying there unaware of the danger? Still, I thought, they could wait. Saving my parents was first priority. On reaching the ground floor, I was relieved to find the air somewhat clearer. I tried the front door. It was locked.

"Where is the key?" I asked.

My mother coughed, and pointed to a nearby vase. I ran over and turned it upside down. No key fell out. The vase was empty.

"It is not here!" I said, vainly trying the door handle again. "We're locked in."

It is a terrible thing to hear one's own mother scream. The sound still rings in my ears to this day. My father had fallen to his knees. I knew in an instant that there was no use going back through the myriad passageways in search of one of the back entrances. I needed to find a way out and find it soon.

My eyes settled on a bronze sculpture. Suddenly having an idea, I lifted it with both hands, and swung it at a large window. The glass shattered. Then, as parents panted behind me, I got to work clearing the debris. I seemed to take an eternity, and I cut myself on shards numerous times, but finally I finished. The way was clear. Through the open window, cool night-time air blew into the room, and I savoured it as a man dying of thirst savours fresh water.

The next task was getting my parents out. Grabbing a nearby chair, I thumped it in front of the broken window. My father was still weak, but he was the first to climb out. He howled as his bare feet trod on fragments of glass, but there was no time to worry about that. Then my mother climbed out, followed by myself. We stumbled and ran out a safe distance into the front gardens. I turned to look at the house. The upper stories were now well-ablaze, and I could hear screams from within. Some slaves were awake then. Chattel though they were, I pitied them, for burning to death is indeed a horrible way to die.

The night air gave me goose-pimples. I shivered there, naked. Then my mother screamed again. I turned. My father had collapsed, clutching his chest. Pushing him onto his back, I beat frantically at his chest, trying to get his heart to start. But it was to no avail. My father, Gimilkhâd son of Ar-Gimilzôr, was dead.


	13. Aftermath

**Chapter Thirteen: Aftermath**

By morning, the house was a burnt out shell. The wooden parts had mostly been reduced to charcoal, while the stony skeleton of the building jutted out, scorched and sad. Remnants of furnishings, shattered ornaments, and blackened books littered the ground; the floors of the upper-stories had caved in, adding to the chaos. Some of the more isolated parts of the property, notably the stables, had survived, but repair and restoration would be a truly monumental task. Having located spare clothes and boots, I wandered around in the dawn light, surveying the wreckage. The place reeked of dead flesh.

"This is Inziladûn's work," muttered my mother, her eyes red-rimmed. "No wonder he lifted that prohibition on you visiting us. He was trying to kill us all."

I sighed. "You know that, I know that, and anyone with half a brain probably suspects it. But without proof, we can do nothing."

My mother placed a hand on my shoulder. "Pharazôn," she said, "I know it in my bones that I will not long survive Gimilkhâd. Please tell me that you will one day avenge your father."

"With all my heart," I said. I mean it too. The madman in Armenelos had claimed thousands of lives, merchants, petty nobles, and commoners. But this was different. For all Gimilkhâd's faults, he was still my father, and Inziladûn would pay. Yes, I thought, one day my uncle would die screaming.

My mother smiled and patted me on the back. "Good lad," she said. "I shall rest easier in my grave when you have put Inziladûn in his. But we now we have work to do." She shouted at some slaves, more of whom had survived than expected, to move their lazy backsides and help clear the wreckage. My mother was a tough woman of Old Númenor. Looking back, I still miss her terribly.

Within a fortnight, my father's funeral took place on the estate, within sight of the ruin that had once been his home. There would be no burial beneath Meneltarma, of course, no chance to lie beside his own father or the great Kings and Queens of this isle. That had been denied to him by accident of birth: in death, as in life, Gimilkhâd found himself a second son. Beneath the overcast sky – it was unseasonably chilly that day – I stood by the graveside, wearing a long sable coat, and watched as the mourners came forward to pay their respects. It was strangely gratifying. They had come from all parts of the Empire, even the lembas-eating lords and ladies who despised my father while he lived. Lord Numendil was there, wrapped in furs and leaning on Amandil for support. With a nose of red set in a face of green, the drunkard old Lord of Andunië looked to be half in the grave himself. Never one to waste a tragedy, Raphizôn was there too, his clothes and moustache uncharacteristically clean. I saw him chatter with Zimilgâr of Forostar, one of the few lords who had genuinely liked Gimilkhâd for who he was, and had stuck with him at all times.

Then there were the more interesting attendees. Elendil and his mother, though whether they had been dragged out of Andunië by Amandil or by some forgotten shred of human decency, I will never know. Zimraphel , wearing that same black mourning outfit she had worn for the death of the Queen. And none other than the King himself, stern, and scowling, and garbed in dark blue velvet. Inziladûn had clearly decided that a non-attendance would raise questions, but one could see the fear in his eyes when he looked around at his loyal subjects. The Palace Guards hovered around my uncle, armed to the teeth, and in no mood for polite discussion. Now was not the time, it was clear, to broach the subject of Gil-galad's missive, or indeed any subject at all.

"He's not looking well," muttered Amandil later, nodding in my uncle's direction.

"Physically or mentally?" I said. The formalities of the ceremony had been completed. We now stood a few feet away from the estate's large Mallorn tree, well out of earshot from the rest of the gathering. "Speaking of ill relatives, your father looks to be at death's door himself." Lord Numendil had needed to sit down after his earlier exertions, and was now quietly snoozing in a chair, supervised by one of Amandil's slaves.

Amandil smiled sadly. "Yes, I fear that he will not live out the year. His physicians warned him about attending your father's funeral, but he insisted on coming anyway."

"To make sure that Gimilkhâd really was dead?"

"Give the Lords of Andunië some credit, Pharazôn," said Amandil. "Not all of we Faithful are like that."

Perhaps Numendil in his twilight years just wanted to make his peace with his old enemies. The lembas-eaters supposedly believe that Eru and the Valar look kindly on such things. Who knows? Not all old men are like my uncle, growing ever more bitter and consumed by hatred as the years lengthen. My uncle…

Though we could not possibly have been overheard, I dropped my voice to a whisper. "You must know that the fire was not an accident."

Amandil nodded. "I think that too. Be wary though. He might try again."

So Amandil had figured it out. I wondered who else had, and whether this could be used to advantage. The fire and my father's death had already attracted a lot of politically useful sympathy for my family. "If he does, I will be ready," I said.

"And you will not be alone," murmured Amandil, almost silently. My heart missed a beat. If only Inziladûn knew the treason that was been talked under his very nose …

I suddenly found myself wondering what Zimraphel thought of the King's failed attempt to kill me off. The King was old, and his daughter was ruthless, ambitious, and utterly without scruples. Nor was she likely to forget that her beloved father had tried to set her aside, contrary to all the laws of Númenor. That was two of my uncle's plans that had failed miserably. Combine that with the general ill-will from the terror … would Zimraphel overlook vengeance against her own father? She must surely: it would give her the throne. Tar-Míriel indeed. With an Ar-Pharazôn sitting beside her, a voice like my mother's whispered. Oh, how the earth would shake and Sauron himself would quail…

My friend turned his head and squinted. "Speaking of the King, is that not him talking with your mother?"

I looked over to the gathering by the graveside. Sure enough, the old monster was standing beside my mother, leaning on that cane of his and engaged in conversation. Even from here, it was clear that the Palace Guard were on edge. I had to do something, and quickly. I ran.

"Mother!" I cried out.

Pushing my way through the bemused mourners, I arrived just in time to see the most powerful man in the world wiping spittle from his face. The spittle, I saw at once, was not his. My mother stood there, in her mourning clothes, looking the King straight in the eye and glowering like a cheated dwarf. Zimraphel, standing a few feet away and holding a glass of water, had gone as white as a ghost. Zimilgâr looked ill, while Raphizôn was nowhere to be seen. I imagined the opportunistic slug was edging back from what looked to be a very, well, delicate situation. I could hardly blame him. Standing there, feeling as helpless as a kitten, I could only thank fate that no-one, with the exception of the Palace Guard was armed: this was a funeral, after all, and there was protocol about such occasions. And as for the Guards, while solid old Nâmalzôr was not there, surely they could recognise that this was not a time for armed intervention? My uncle was a paranoid tyrant. But was he unstable enough to fight with a grieving widow at her husband's funeral?

"My condolences again, madam" said the King, with a quiet formality. I could almost hear the collective sigh of relief from the spectators as he said this: Inziladûn's paranoia had not completely displaced his sense of decorum. There was no eruption, or even emotion from the sour old man. Notwithstanding the abrasive treatment he had received, the King bowed his head with his customary insincerity and retreated. The Guards followed in his wake.

I watched them go until it was safe to breathe again. My mother had not moved. I could still hardly believe it. She had _spat_ at _Ar-Inziladûn_? "That was brave," I whispered in her ear. "Or else incredibly foolish."

"How dare he," she muttered. "The vile hypocrite."

"He's a vile hypocrite with two dozen armed Guards. And he was giving his formal condolences."

"This is our land, not his," she snapped. "And he's always been a coward at heart. Now go and talk to Amandil or something. I need peace."

Sighing, I walked back to the Mallorn tree and Amandil. Families, I decided, were complicated things.


	14. The Summer of Discontent

**Chapter Fourteen: The Summer of Discontent**

It was a slow and painful process putting our lives back together. But we had help, at least, and it is only in adversity that one truly finds out who one's friends are. Amandil, ever the decent fellow, overruled his wife's objections and offered my mother accommodation in Andunië. My mother promptly accepted, which was a great relief to me: the further away the increasingly frail old woman was from the fraught politics of the capital, the better. As for myself, the wealth I had brought back from my adventures in Middle-earth served me in good stead. I found myself a comfortable house in inner Armenelos, and hired workmen to get started on rebuilding the ruin.

From the upstairs window of my new townhouse, I could sit in comfort and sip wine while looking out over the main thoroughfare of the city. It was barely more than a stone's throw away from Inziladûn's Palace, and in my more reflective moods I spent many hours gazing at those high walls and massive pillars, and thinking treasonous and vengeful thoughts about the King who sat within. A King whose life and power were ebbing away ever more swiftly as the years went on.

There was something in the air of Armenelos in those days, a restlessness and excitement that none had ever seen before. Wild-eyed street orators foretold the impending doom of Númenor, their hysteria fed by drought and crop-failure. Inziladûn was blamed for everything, of course. High food prices led to riots in the city-beyond-the-walls. My uncle responded with more guards – the city watch was trebled within months – and ever more curfews. This cost money, and from my contacts in the royal treasury, I learned that Inziladûn was not happy. He would have been even less happy had he known that some of the leading trouble-makers were receiving hefty contributions from me. Not that he was ever going to find out. I pride myself on being able to cover my tracks.

Meanwhile, the issue of Gil-galad's scroll lurked at the back of mind. I had not forgotten it, of course, but there were difficulties. The first was that with Inziladûn so politically vulnerable, it was sorely tempting to actually try to overthrow the old monster outright, achieving my revenge in one foul swoop. But that would be risky: failure would mean my own death, while with the King this old, I could simply wait, and then throw my lot in with Zimraphel. In any case, the other difficulty was actually getting to the secretive monarch. He had not been seen in public since the funeral, and was never available to see even the highest nobles. Even Zimraphel was puzzled by his comings and goings, and said as much when she visited me for dinner one evening.

"He jumps at shadows," she said, "and spends much of his time in the kitchen watching the cooks, lest they secretly poison him."

I could only shake my head at that. Matters, I thought, were coming to a head. How much longer could this go on?

One fateful morning, I was sitting in my upstairs room reading the latest letter from my mother in Andunië. Old Lord Numendil was still alive, it seemed, and notwithstanding the alcoholism and awkward politics, had proved to be one of the best friends my mother had ever had. Elendil was warming to her too, apparently. I was still smiling to myself when I was startled by a knock on the door.

"Enter," I said. It was one of the household slaves.

"My Lord," he said, "Captain Nâmalzôr of the Palace Guards is here to see you."

"Send him in," I said, rolling up my mother's letter and placing it to one side.

Nâmalzôr entered briskly, and gave me a salute. The Captain looked much the same as ever.

"My Lord Pharazôn, the King needs you at the Palace urgently."

I raised an eyebrow. Inziladûn wanted to see me? He surely could not be wanting to kill me: the honourable Nâmalzôr would have given me sufficient warning to get out the city. Besides, if my uncle even attempted to kill me, the Armenelos mob would hang him from Nimloth's highest branch.

"What is this about, Nâmalzôr?"

"He says he needs your advice."

"Tell him that his dress sense is very wrong," I said lightly, getting to my feet. I sighed. "Very well, I shall come. I am, after all, his loyal servant." Which was an even bigger jape, but Nâmalzôr let it slide. I decided to take Gil-galad's scroll with me. I might never get a better chance.

I followed the Captain back to the Palace. Outwardly I betrayed no nervousness: why should I when I was Pharazôn the popular, beloved by the common people and all but the most extreme Faithful? Politically, I was as untouchable as Zimraphel herself. There, however, remained a lingering doubt: I was not dealing with a rational man here. Inziladûn was endlessly paranoid. Who knew what he was capable of?

I soon received a rather morbid illustration of just what my uncle was capable of. A gallows had been installed by the Palace Gate. There was a corpse hanging from the rope, and as we passed by I briefly looked up at the dead face. Notwithstanding the flies and blue pallor, the victim was clearly identifiable. It was the pathetic young foppish nobleman that Zimraphel had once found amusing. No-one would shed a tear over the fellow, least of all the Princess, but to hang a nobleman, rather than behead him, was, well, wrong. I suddenly found myself wondering what had ever become of Pharazôn the monkey.

"The King awaits you in his chambers," said Nâmalzôr.

"Thank you, Captain," I said. "I know the way." Nâmalzôr nodded politely.

My uncle was sitting over a table when I found him, having dinner. As I entered, he was inspecting each spoonful of soup individually before eating. The soup, I suspected, was stone cold. Two armed guards stood against the wall, emotionless.

"Pharazôn," said Inziladûn. His hair was whiter, and he was a good deal thinner than when I had last seen him.

"Uncle," I said, bowing.

The King put down his spoon. "There are plots to kill me, Pharazôn. Everywhere around me, there are plots."

"As you say, uncle." If only the old monster knew…

"I can trust no-one. I have been betrayed times beyond count, even by own daughter."

"Yes, uncle." What had Zimraphel done now? Or was this just a reference to the endless betrothal fiasco?

"I am cursed, Pharazôn, cursed by the ingratitude of others. I have slaved for decades to return this nation to its ancient rectitude, but I have been undermined by the people whom I most sought to help. This is why I now need your aid."

"My aid?"

Inziladûn fixed me with a frown. "Yes, your aid. You're not deaf are you?"

"Why, my King…"

"Do not get any ideas about there being any warmth between us. I despise you, Pharazôn, and always will, but you are one of the few men in this Empire who has not yet betrayed me. I now make you an offer. Rid me of these plots, find them, and drag the culprits out from the shadows, and I shall make you my Heir."

It took a monumental effort to keep a straight face at that. The irony was truly delicious. But, I knew in an instant, this offer was not what it seemed. If I "tried" and failed, the King would use that as an excuse to destroy me. The only reason he had not done so already was because I was too popular and had never given him enough proof. If, on the other hand, I successfully cured my uncle's paranoia, he would discard me the moment he no longer needed me, and I would be associated with the worst of his crimes. He was a man drowning in quicksand, and was threatening to pull me in.

"I will do what I can," I said, buying time. "But first I need to show you something. Some time ago, I voyaged to Middle-earth…"

"Yes, your voyage to Lindon," interrupted Inziladûn, smirking. "How is Gil-galad anyway?"

Do not let yourself get too smug, uncle, I thought. "The Elf lord sends his regards. He also gave me this." I held out the scroll, still in its original seal.

Inziladûn took the precious document. "Yes," he said, inspecting it, "this appears to be Gil-galad's unbroken seal."

"It is the Noldorin King lending his voice to mine. He urges you to make war on Sauron of Mordor."

My uncle snorted. "Does he now? Let me see for myself." He broke open the seal and unrolled the scroll. He frowned, and turned the parchment over.

"There is no writing here," he said, puzzled.

"No writing?" I exclaimed. "There must be! Gil-galad gave the missive to me himself!"

"Yet the page is blank. See for yourself." The King handed the scroll back to me. Sure enough, both sides of the parchment were completely devoid of writing. I had been tricked. To have crossed back and forth across the Sea, only to find myself humiliated in front of my King by that pointy-eared liar…

"Well, Pharazôn," said Inziladûn, smiling. My distress had obviously served to cheer him up. "It seems that our audience is at an end. And that High-King Gil-galad thinks even less of you than I do. Perhaps I must look for someone else to rid me of these nefarious traitors. Farewell!"

"But uncle!"

"Be gone, Pharazôn. My dinner is getting cold." With that, Inziladûn picked up a spoon and resumed inspecting his long-cold soup.

Gritting my teeth, I bowed and left. As I was shutting the door behind me, I felt someone tapping my shoulder. It was Nâmalzôr.

"My Lord," he muttered, "I need to speak to you in private. Follow me."


	15. No Returning

**Chapter Fifteen: No Returning**

"I hope," I snapped, "that this time you are leading me to somewhere other than abject humiliation." My hopes and dreams having foundered upon the twin rocks on my uncle and that despicable Elf lord, I was in no mood to suffer again.

Nâmalzôr looked sympathetic. "I hope so too, my lord. But please follow me."

I sighed and decided to acquiesce to his request. The day could not get any worse. My fists still instinctively clenched, I strode down the corridor after him. It soon became apparent that the walk was to be a lengthy one, as we descended many flights of stairs. Soon we were well under ground level, and after a while, the way became disconcertingly unfamiliar. It had been a century or more since I had first visited the Palace, but I found myself vainly trying to recall the last time I had been in this part of it. I wondered if Zimraphel and Inziladûn ever visited these underground places, or whether they were in truth the dust-filled relics of another age, forgotten by all save the Palace guardsmen. For his part, Nâmalzôr seemed in little doubt where we were headed. Eventually, the Captain came to a small side-door.

"In here, my Lord."

I frowned at Nâmalzôr. The man was trustworthy enough, yes, but that is what puzzled me. The man had survived the reigns of my grandfather and uncle by keeping his head down and following orders. If they were conflicting or insane orders, no man in the Empire was better equipped to carry them out. Nâmalzôr never bit back, never schemed, never plotted. Yet here he was, trying to have a conspiratorial meeting with me deep under the Palace. It made no sense.

The Captain seemed to appreciate my misgivings. He smiled wanly. "Please, my lord," he said. "You will soon understand."

The room was small and sparse; it contained merely a table and several chairs. There were no windows, of course; torches lined the walls. One of Nâmalzôr's fellow guards was sitting at the table; on seeing me, he stood to attention.

"Greetings, my lord," he said. The guard was thin, wiry, and red-haired. I had never met him before, I knew that well enough. Red hair is very distinctive in Númenor.

"So tell me," I said, irritably, "why have you dragged me down here?"

Nâmalzôr shut the door behind him. "My Lord, the King now thinks that Princess Míriel played a part in the death of the Queen."

I raised my eyebrows. Things had become interesting. "Impossible," I said, for form's sake. "The Queen died in childbirth, was well-loved, and was Zimraphel's own mother." Yet my cousin had never cried at the Queen's death. Now that I thought about it, there was still strange about the death of Inziladûn's wife. Yes, something that seemed not quite right…

"Whether it is true or not is not important," said the red-haired guard, abrasively. I noticed that he was no longer addressing me as 'my lord'. A common little upstart with pretensions then. "What matters is that the King is about to start another purge, starting with the Princess."

"Lord Pharazôn," said Nâmalzôr, "the Empire cannot stand another terror. During the last one, when I nailed up those parchments of death, I remember seeing the fear in people's faces as they read the names. I cannot do it again. I will not do it again."

They were right, of course. Inziladûn would not stop with Zimraphel. Indeed, a new purge would be far more terrifying than the last: if the King's Heir fell, no-one would be safe. That included me.

"The King has to die," said the red-haired guard. "You must be our new King. Yes, Ar-Pharazôn shall lead us into a new golden age."

Killing Inziladûn would be a pleasure. It would be the vengeance I had longed dreamt of. But the throne … It is a difficult thing being just out of the line of immediate succession. So near, yet so far: it drove my father mad. Yet there was something else here. My heart sank. "You forget the Princess," I said, knowing full well what was implied.

"Míriel must die too," said the redhead, obviously less squeamish than his Captain. "She would thank us for the throne, then have us all executed in vengeance for her father. We would never be safe if we let the Princess live."

Nâmalzôr was sweating in the torchlight. "Makadam is right, my lord. Believe me, I have thought about this long and hard. There is no other way. The King must die to save the realm, and the Princess must die in order to save us."

"Suppose I married her instead?"

Nâmalzôr looked shocked. "But that would be against the laws of Númenor!" he said. I almost laughed. The dear fellow, having decided on regicide, could not bring himself to countenance first cousins marrying. Only in Númenor…

Makadam shook his head. "It still would not work," he said. "If you married her, she would use her father's death to blackmail you every day of your life. She would soon have you crawling on all-fours like a beast."

The red-headed guard's sudden interest in my future reign was most gratifying, and unlikely, I knew, to have any altruistic motivations. Well, let him think that he was using me, I decided. No man used Pharazôn. In the meantime, I would have to watch this one: he had ambition.

"Very well," I said, still feeling somewhat disappointed that the throne had come at the price of Zimraphel's life. I would never get to enjoy her warm flesh beneath me ever again. On the other hand, I thought, there were other women, and as Zimraphel herself had once said to me, sensitivity is a dangerous thing.

Makadam smiled. Nâmalzôr didn't.

"The assassination will take place tonight," said the Captain sourly, "while the King is sleeping. The guards on duty are supportive of us." I noticed he did not say 'loyal to us'. Conceptions of loyalty were clearly playing on Nâmalzôr's conscience.

"And those that aren't," said Makadam, less conscience-stricken, "have been dealt with."

I wondered how long this little conspiracy had been building. Looking at Makadam, it was not hard to imagine him as a cynical opportunist, who had been waiting for something like this to arise for some time.

"Suppose," I said, "that the King is not sleeping? My uncle is a paranoid man who believes that schemers are out there trying to kill him. Do you not think he will be ready for schemers who are, in fact, out to kill him?"

"The King is an elderly cripple," said Makadam. "He will have no guards to protect him. Surely, Lord Pharazôn, you are capable of overpowering and killing Ar-Inziladûn? Your martial prowess is, after all, a by-word throughout Armenelos."

"So you want me to do the actual killing?" I said.

"Why," said Makadam, "it is only fair. You want vengeance for your father, after all. Who better to strike the avenging blow than Gimilkhâd's own son?"

The little weasel wanted to paint me as the ringleader, with all the risks that entailed. There was a catch here. I wanted to kill Inziladûn, certainly, but I had sufficient political nous to know that waving one's own bloodied blade over a dead King was not the way to cover one's tracks. Still, I could not deny that the whole thing would be enormously satisfying. My mother would certainly approve.

"I will not kill the Princess though," I said.

"Rest assured, we will take care of Míriel."

After that, it was only planning the details. Nâmalzôr would let me into the Palace a couple of hours after midnight. Loyal guardsmen would be in place at every step, and would deal with Zimraphel and any Palace functionaries who could potentially stand in our way. I would then slip into the King's chambers and send his vile soul howling down to whatever eternal torment awaited. A swift ceremony would confirm me as King, and finally, the next morning, the dawn of a new era for Númenor would be announced to the people of Armenelos. It all sounded so very simple.

"So we are all agreed then," said Makadam at last. He looked very smug.

"Yes," I said. Nâmalzôr nodded forlornly.

Afterwards, as Nâmalzôr led me back up the stairs, I asked him what had ever possessed him to let a snake like Makadam into service. It was not as if Inziladûn was foisting some lembas-eater on him.

"Yes, Makadam is unpleasant, isn't he?" agreed Nâmalzôr, looking over his shoulder. "But he has proven very good at his job. My conscience and I have just had to live with him."

"Very good at his job, is he?" I scoffed. "So I take it that he is very good at standing around looking menacing, and opening doors for dignitaries?"

"The life of a Palace guardsman is rather more complex than that, my lord," said Nâmalzôr, affronted. "The man may be utterly amoral, but he is a superb administrator. Makadam has freed me from the endless tedium of paperwork."

"Whatever you think is best, Captain." Poor gullible Nâmalzôr. I had thought him savvier.

"I am thinking of retiring though, once all this is over. I am getting old, and my grandchildren in Andustar never see me. Besides, Lord Pharazôn, and I mean this as no offence, there is only so much of the royal family one can take."

"No offence taken, Captain." It did not need to be said who was likely to replace a retiring Nâmalzôr. I resolved that, once I was safely ensconced upon the throne, Makadam would get what he deserved.

Later, walking back to my townhouse beneath the early afternoon sun, it occurred to me that by this time tomorrow, I would be either a King or a corpse. As indeed would Inziladûn, except in reverse, while poor Zimraphel was doomed whoever won. The prospect of my cousin's imminent death still made me profoundly uncomfortable, however. It was this, far more than any qualms about regicide, that was giving me butterflies in my stomach.

Amandil has often said that I am motivated by only three things in life, namely wine, women, and glory. Which was true enough, but underneath my legendary arrogance, I do believe I have a conscience, and at that moment, my conscience was plaguing me almost as badly as Nâmalzôr. I understood the guards' arguments well enough: Zimraphel's goodwill could not be relied upon. But, all things considered, it did seem unfair on her, especially as the plot was motivated to prevent Inziladûn from killing his daughter in the first place. It was an issue that still needed much thought. I wondered if I would get any sleep that evening. I doubted it.


	16. Of Prizes and Prices

**Chapter Sixteen: Of Prizes and Prices**

Barking instructions to the house slaves to leave me undisturbed, I paced the floor for hours. I swear I must have worn that carpet down to threads. There were simply too many questions to ponder. Could I save Zimraphel? Should I save Zimraphel? Could I convince her to spare the lives of the conspirators, or at least Nâmalzôr anyway? I was being handed the throne outright: a living Zimraphel would be the greatest threat to my legitimacy. Yet I could not deny her ability, both as an administrator and in bed: living, she would be a useful ally. The only way out, I saw, was some sort of marriage agreement, but would she use her knowledge of Inziladûn's murder to reduce me to a puppet, as Makadam had suggested?

I wished Amandil or my mother were here, but as the hours slipped by, and the Sun began to sink into the West, I had no-one but myself. Forcing myself to eat a light seafood dinner – one should never kill on an empty stomach – I tried to recall any historical precedent for this. I could not think of one, and I cursed myself for not having paid more attention to my history tutors in my youth. Oh yes, there were the usual lembas-eating lies about how my grandfather had tried to murder the young Inziladûn, but they were all utter nonsense. As much as Ar-Gimilzôr hated Elves and their friends, he loved my grandmother Inzilabêth too much to hurt any of her children.

I did not go to bed that evening. Instead I sat in my armchair, alone with my thoughts, and awaited the inevitable knock on the door. It came, as expected. Nâmalzôr was as punctual as ever, though cloaked and hooded, he resembled a forest bandit from the wilds of Andustar more than the Captain of the Royal Guards.

"Well, Lord Pharazôn," he said on seeing me, "tonight is the night."

"The weather seems to be against us," I said, pulling on a cloak of my own. "Clear skies, Full Moon, hardly a night for conspiracy."

"We are working indoors, my lord. It hardly matters."

"We need every bit of fortune we can get," I said. "But, yes, let us go. Tonight we change the course of the Empire forever."

The street outside was eerily quiet, being devoid of men, horses, and carts. Once, the main thoroughfare of Númenor's capital had been busy, noisy, and smelly with commerce and civilisation all night long, but no longer: my uncle's ever more restrictive curfews had seen to that. It was now just us, beneath the Moon, hooded shadows of vengeance descending on the Palace. We silently made our way up to the Gates; as promised, the Guards appeared to be expecting us, and we faced no difficulties. One of the guardsmen even winked at me, though in the dim light I was perhaps imagining things. Then it was past the gallows, where the fop's corpse still dangled as an impotent warning, up the wide marble steps, and through some great iron-and-oak doors. Nâmalzôr had the key, of course. A man clutching a candle awaited us on the other side, the solitary flame illuminating his shock of red hair and making shadows dance across his face.

"Lord Pharazôn," he said in a hushed tone, "all is prepared."

"Thank you, Makadam," I whispered. "I will see that you get your reward when I come into my own." Indeed he would, I thought.

Makadam smiled. "You will be pleased to know that Ar-Inziladûn went to bed early tonight. His dinner appears to have disagreed with him. And to think that the King was always so careful…"

Two armed figures suddenly emerged from the shadows. Nâmalzôr and I drew our swords in a heartbeat, but it proved to be only a couple of Makadam's sympathetic guardsmen. Inwardly castigated myself for my nervousness, I resheathed my blade.

"My lords," one of the new arrivals said, slightly sheepishly, "we have a difficulty. The Princess is nowhere to be found. We have searched every inch of her chambers."

It may have been a blow to my aspirations, but I have seen few sights more satisfying than the smug grin being wiped from Makadam's face at that moment. His face went as red as his hair.

"Keep looking, you utter fools," he hissed. "While she lives, we are in mortal peril. Come, follow me, I will help you search."

As he departed, Makadam seemed to remember the presence of Nâmalzôr and myself. He turned, and then bowed slightly, though hardly politely. "I wish you well against your uncle," he said. Then he was gone.

"I will come with you, my lord," murmured Nâmalzôr at my shoulder. "If this be treason, I would rather look the crime in the face."

"Life gets interesting if they cannot find Zimraphel," I said, "but that is for later. First I must avenge my father." If only my mother could have seen me then.

Though the walls were lined with dimmed lamps, I needed no light to find my way to my uncle's chambers. Through dark corridors and up dark stairs I flew. We passed numerous guardsmen, none of whom gave us a second glance. Makadam had done his work well, though even I was surprised how many of the Palace guards loathed their King sufficiently to wish him dead. Or perhaps, I reflected, they did not wish him dead. Perhaps they were being bribed or threatened into turning a blind eye. Who knows? All I knew then was that fortune was, despite my earlier fears, smiling on me. Inziladûn's fate was sealed.

There were two guardsmen standing watch outside King's bed chamber. One short, one tall, and both bearded. Neither moved as Nâmalzôr and I approached.

"The key," said Nâmalzôr to one of the guards. He said it in such a deadpan fashion, he might have been buying fish at the market.

The subordinate wore the key on a chain around his neck. Silently, the man pulled the chain up over his head, and handed it to the Captain. Briefly nodding at me, Nâmalzôr inserted the key into the lock, and turned. With a gentle nudge, the door swung open soundlessly.

This was it, I thought. Drawing my sword, I strode through the door, into the dark beyond. It turned out to be not so dark after all. Moonlight bathed my uncle's chamber in a pale glow. I crept across the floor, towards the massive royal bed. The King lay on his back, asleep beneath the coverlets. I raised my sword.

Then his eyes fluttered open.

"Pharazôn," said my uncle. "So you too have betrayed me."

"This is for my father," I said.

There was no shouting, no defiance. Inziladûn seemed to accept death. A tear slid down the old man's cheek. "Betrayed by all," he whispered.

"It is nothing that you have not earned a thousand times over."

"I did what I had to do," said the King. "You will discover that all Kings must do what they have to do. May you have better fortune than I."

He must have thought Zimraphel dead already. Given his suspicions, I wondered if the King took any consolation from that, or whether his impending death had given him cause for forgiveness. Suddenly realising that a pillow would be safer and less messy than a sword, I seized one from the bed.

Inziladûn did not move. He looked at me one last time: sad, lonely, and defeated. A man who had lost everything, even his own family.

"But remember, Pharazôn," he said, "when the White Tree fails, the Line of Elros will fail. Remember that, Pharazôn."

I have never forgotten those words, the last utterance of a doomed tyrant. How could I forget? It was such a strange thing to say. He did not cry for help, or beg for mercy. My uncle's last thoughts were of Nimloth.

Inziladûn was still muttering 'remember' as I smothered him with the pillow. He barely struggIed. Then it was over. The mighty Ar-Inziladûn son of Ar-Gimilzôr, Tar-Palantír in the Elvish tongue, lay dead before me, his tear-filled face peaceful at last. I stood back and frowned, as though something should now happen. Nothing did. It was all so strangely anticlimactic.

"Very nice, Pharazôn," said a voice from behind me.

I swept around. "Zimraphel?" I said, holding my sword at the ready.

She was standing there, a shadow among shadows. She must have been in the room all the time, watching her father sleep. Zimraphel moved forward into the moonlight. She was wearing that pleasant little green dress of hers; I knew it from the outline, though here it appeared grey.

"Yes," she said, "it is I. Now the only question that remains is whether Tar-Míriel should thank you for your kind gift of the throne, or whether I should have your head for regicide and the murder of my father. It is a tough choice, is it not?"

My mouth was dry. "There will be no Tar-Míriel, cousin. The throne now belongs to Ar-Pharazôn the Golden." It seemed appropriate. Behind the bravado of my words though, my mind was frantically working on how to resolve this. I did not want to kill this woman.

"So Ar-Pharazôn intends to slay me too?" said Zimraphel. Her tone was mocking, but without a hint of fear. The woman, incredibly, seemed to be enjoying herself. "What a mighty King he is, a reign born in the slaughter of elderly cripples, and defenceless women. Sauron of Mordor must be quivering with fear."

"Nevertheless, you must die." I saw that Nâmalzôr and the guards had entered the room.

"I do not think that is in your interests," said my cousin. "Think for a moment. Few men will mourn Tar-Palantír's tragic but hardly untimely end. He died in his sleep, after all." The lie came easily to her. "But to brazenly murder the Princess, why, that is an altogether different matter…"

"I am more beloved than you. Everyone knows that."

"Kill me, and money or no money, that love will melt away like snow under the midday Sun," said Zimraphel. "Andunië will rise in revolt, and you will face bloody civil war."

"Andunië will not rise while Amandil still breathes. Besides, I know how to fight a war," I said.

"Against your own people? Even if you win, what sort of Empire, what sort of nation would be left? I tell you, Pharazôn, yield up the throne to me and I shall be merciful."

"There she is!" Several men, including Makadam, suddenly ran into the room. The vile little upstart elbowed his way past Nâmalzôr. "Kill her, Pharazôn," he urged. "Swiftly! We have no time to lose!"

That was the last straw. I was not to be bullied by a common dung-eating weasel. I was Ar-Pharazôn, and I was no man's puppet. "Silence!" I barked, using my sharpest regimental tone.

The room fell silent. No-one moved. I turned to Zimraphel.

"Princess," I said softly. "Will you marry me?"


End file.
